


Another Mind Game

by May_May_0_0



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Child Abuse, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Angst, He gets better, I mean it's kinda crack, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Mentor Severus Snape, Other, Sassy Harry Potter, Severus Snape Adopts Harry Potter, Slow Burn, Snape becomes more OOC overtime, So there!, Strong Harry Potter, and sometimes high-key, but it's kinda low-key, but only sometimes, not terribly but a bit, presumed suicidal, protective hogwarts, slow burn severitis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 54,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24779923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_May_0_0/pseuds/May_May_0_0
Summary: Harry’s occlumency reveals his disturbing home life which sets off a chain reaction that cannot be undone. Snape finds himself begrudgingly caring about the bespectacled boy, Harry discovers what it's like to have adults who care, and Hermione finds herself becoming an accidental crime lord. Draco Malfoy is very much along for the ride, in all senses of the word.A ridiculous blend of hilarity and tragedy, Another Mind Game is the multi-faceted fanfiction you didn't know you wanted but will absolutely adore.Featuring a sassy Harry Potter, good friends, and a great deal of sarcasm.There are also ridiculous endnotes if you make it far enough.  (You can do it!)
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 876
Kudos: 3955
Collections: Harry Potter Favs, Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy





	1. Practical Dreaming

Harry was breathing quickly, hands on his knees, trying very hard (and almost failing) not to vomit. Snape meanwhile leaned nonchalantly against the side of his overly large desk and pinched his nose bridge between his fingers. 

“And what, Potter, do you think of your current performance? Are you amused, perchance, at how thoroughly you have managed to waste my time -- _yet again?”_

Harry grit his teeth and shook his head. He found the strength to straighten and panting, stood up to his whole height. He was still rather short. And skinny. He found it amusing sometimes that the boy-who-lived was also the shortest fifth-year boy around, almost the same height as Susan Bones who people generally agreed was roughly average for a girl and decidedly too short for a boy. 

“No.” Harry paused. “Sir.” Snape raised an eyebrow at the addition. Snape’s eyes flashed. 

“Then perhaps Potter you could explain why you have flagrantly disregarded all my instructions and failed so utterly and completely to occlude, I am beginning to wonder if you don’t have enough mind for me to try and protect.” 

Harry clenched his fists. _He wants a reaction. I will not give him a reason to further antagonize me. I’ll be honest. I have nothing to hide._

“I do better with practical applications.” Snape looked at him seemingly unimpressed. 

“Is my invading your mind not a practical demonstration?” Harry did not reply. Snape's eyes glinted with amusement. “Speak up Potter, I would hate for you to fail to explain yourself simply because your idiot mouth stayed silent.” 

Harry fingernails dug into his palms. “What I mean to say, Professor, is that well--” 

“Yes, Potter, please enlighten me and finish your sentences.” 

“When I was learning the Patronus, I was told again and again, “find your happy memories and then cast,” but I couldn’t, I mean it didn’t help. Because I thought my memories were happy, you see? But then it wasn’t working and then Lupin brought out the boggart for me to practice with, and I started sort of being able to see what worked and didn’t work. I saw that--” He looked at Snape, but Snape seemed interested and willing to let Harry keep speaking. “I saw that a memory where I felt happy, me on the Gryffindor sinking couch with Hermione and Ron while wearing a Weasly sweater, wasn’t always enough. It felt warm but then I would lose it around the cold of the dementors. So I learned the trick was finding the memories that were already cold around the edges and had just one big burst of warmth and then I could make Prongs, that’s what I call my Patronus because he’s a stag, come out and fight.” 

“Fascinating, Potter, but I fail to see the relevance.” 

Harry smiled slightly. If it weren’t for the man’s scowl, he might have thought Snape was being civil. 

“Well, that’s the bit about me doing better with something practical. I keep being told I need to ‘clear my mind’ but clearly whatever I’m trying to do isn’t working. I need something to visualize. If I can tell what kind of thing I’m defending myself against, and what I need to feel like to do it, I think I could have better success. I need to understand the ‘what,’ I guess, but also the ‘why.’”

Snape was staring at him now, and not in a “Harry Potter is the maggot I killed so many times and yet still haunts me” kind of a way but in a “Harry Potter is a potions ingredient that has expired but I’m trying to figure out if he has a use” kind of a way. Harry didn’t mind the look so much.

Snape cleared his throat.

“Perhaps you should visualize how you feel when you make a Patronus. The emotions you feel could very well be powerful, and you seem to identify with your Patronus more than is typical, even going so far as to give it a name. Perhaps you should envision ‘Prongs,’” Snape sneered as though he were disgusted, “running around protecting your thoughts and then focus solely on your Patronus. Clear your mind of everything else.” 

Harry nodded. He could work with that. “So I’ll just think about making my Patronus then.” 

Harry began to think of the best memory to use but before he could get to the Patronus Snape had already said, “Legimillens.” He tried to think through to the end anyway. If Snape saw, then, well, he hopefully wouldn’t see the memory for too long. 

  
...  
  


_Severus was in the kitchen of a muggle home. The kitchen was a blinding white with pale blue accents, there was a granite island in the middle and two burners. Harry looked around the same as when Severus had last seen him, so he assumed that this memory was from the past summer._

_Outside of the kitchen, Petunia, how Severus hated that woman, was sitting and eating what looked to be a rather good piece of lasagna. Next to her sat the fattest man he had ever seen, mustached and purple in the face. The man seemed to have been feeding his mustache the same amount of lasagna as he was eating himself._

_On the other side of the table sat a boy far larger than Harry, pudgy but also bulky in a way that suggested perhaps he had a use for his bulk. A picture on the mantle of the boy holding a trophy for boxing seemed to clear that away._

_Harry was not seated at the table but he was in the kitchen, cleaning up what appeared to be the pans used for the making of the lasagna and the garlic bread. Snape could feel how hungry Harry felt. Why had he not eaten? He was too picky, perhaps. Harry was feeling faint at the moment, and he turned behind him warily, making sure his family was occupied with their food._

_He turned the water from the hottest it could go to the coldest, and then he cupped his hands and drank. He gathered water in his cupped hands and drank three more times before continuing to wash up. His aunt, Petunia, had wandered into the kitchen while he was cleaning. She looked at him._

_“Don’t run up the water bill taking so long, boy, we already pay too much for you as it is.”_

_Harry nodded slowly. “Of course Aunt Petunia.” She pursed her lips and continued to watch him clean then methodically dry the pans. Her son and husband were still eating at the table, separated only by the island. Harry had finished cleaning and was clearly waiting for the other two to finish up. Harry was so very hungry and Severus could see, even beneath his horrid baggy clothing, clearly castaways from the boxing boy, that he was thinner than he had been at Hogwarts. And Harry had always come across as thin, waifish really, but in this memory, his wrists were so skinny Severus felt they would snap._

_Harry breathed deeply as though trying to gather courage. He could hear Harry thinking, “Gryffindor. You’re a fucking Gryffindor.” So Harry squared his shoulders. If Severus could have leaned forward he would have. What did the baby lion need his courage for?_

_“Aunt Petunia,” Harry said, voice barely a whisper, “might I have something to eat for dinner?”_

_Petunia glared at him. “No.” Severus felt out of his depth all of a sudden. Clearly something in the entire dynamic of the home was very wrong. “You may not.” She turned her head away and made eye contact with the large mustached blob._

_Harry slumped and Severus watched as the oaf of a man stood and stomped into the kitchen. Harry flinched and the man grabbed Harry's hair and slammed him into the edge of the countertop. Harry’s head began to bleed._

_“Been talking to my wife have you?” The man grunted and slammed Harry into the counter again._

_“No.” Harry whispered. His left arm was twisted behind his back as his uncle violently pushed Harry's face onto the island._

_“No what, freak?” Harry shuddered._

_“No, sir.”_

_The man let go of Harry and he toppled like a house of cards and fell to the floor. The man looked down at him in disgust._

_“We put a roof over your head and you think it’s your right to question us?” The man kicked Harry’s ribs. “You think you get to ask for things?” Another kick, “you ungrateful swine.” The man stepped on Harry and continued out of the kitchen. “Leave my wife alone you little shit” He warned before going upstairs._

_Petunia walked over to where Harry was still lying on the ground, his forehead bruised and bleeding, his oversized shirt torn and matted with blood. She pushed a small box into his hands. Harry stared at it unseeingly. “Raisins,” Snape noticed._

_Petunia looked at him. “What do you say, boy?”_

_Harry seemed to realize he was holding food. “Thank you.” It was disgustingly sincere, given the circumstances. Petunia sniffed._

_“It is far more than you deserve.” Petunia also left the kitchen and went up the stairs. Harry pushed himself up and calmly cleaned up his own blood from the floor and went to clear the table. He froze when he saw that his cousin, the boxer, was still seated. They made eye contact._

_“It isn’t.” His cousin said. Harry blinked._

_“What isn’t, Dudley?” Harry sounded unbelievably tired._

_“It isn’t more than you deserve.” The boy said. The boy, Dudley, seemed to be fighting to find words. He swallowed. “It is far, far less, I think. For whatever that’s worth.”_

_Harry blinked again and then Severus felt this bright burst of warmth and felt himself feeling as though he were wrapped in a thousand blankets as a heavenly choir sang the words, “Expecto Patronum.” The room dissolved into a large stag and for a moment all Severus could do was stare. Then he began to push, to try and find an opening into Potter’s mind, to access his thoughts, but all he could see was a large stag trotting towards him and then he thought if reached out perhaps he could touch an antler and then the stag was too close and --_

...

Severus found himself abruptly back in his own mind. He felt sad and warm, and utterly confused. About everything, really. He had never seen occlumency like that before. He clearly needed to reconsider all the things he imagined made up Harry Potter. For that single moment of, you couldn’t even call it kindness, but perhaps decency from his cousin, to make Harry so warm, spoke to a deep need for affection that one didn’t grow overnight. 

Harry seemed to be asleep. Snape sent a stinging hex and Harry’s eyes opened slowly. The green eyes appeared to be glowing. Harry rubbed his cheek. Snape muttered the counter.

“Did I do better this time, sir?” Potter asked.

“Professor.” Severus said. “Don’t call me sir.” Severus shuddered remembering the boy bleeding and saying, “no sir.” Potter would never call him that again if he could help it. 

Potter looked at him confused and then his eyes widened in understanding and his cheeks flushed with shame. 

“So you saw then. It didn’t work.” The boy’s voice was flat. 

“I saw a great deal, Potter. I should hope that next lesson I will not need to see a full memory before you can produce your mental Patronus.” 

Potter was staring at the floor. “I don’t understand.” 

“Potter,” the boy continued looking down, “Potter look at me.” The boy raised his emerald eyes and Severus saw hopelessness that no teenager should have ever worn. 

“I saw a disturbing memory of you in a kitchen with an oaf of a man and a horse of a woman,” Potter’s lips twitched, “but after your boxer of a cousin said very limited words in your defense, all I could see was your Patronus. The stag became the only part of your mind I could see, and then _it chased me out.”_

Potter shrugged. “Is that a good thing?” 

Severus pinched his nose bridge once more. “It is unusual. I’ve never seen anyone do anything like it and I’ve never read about it anywhere. But to answer your question, it was adequate Potter. I believe we may have found your ‘practical’ guidance.” 

Potter was grinning so widely Severus feared his face was stretched to canvas. “Why are you smiling Potter?” 

“Adequate, professor. You told me I was enough.” Harry continued to grin.  
  


...

Long after Potter had left, Severus leaned against his desk puzzling over the lesson. He thought of the boy’s home life, of the immense stag and of the immense joy the idiot boy had felt at being told he was acceptable, not even remotely resembling exception. “ _You told me I was enough.”_

_Why does that matter to him so much? “You deserve more.”_


	2. Deserving of Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron can't really write essays and Hermione is cooler than ice on a winter morning.

When Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room it was quite late, but Ron and Hermione were huddled in one corner far away from the fire, and Ron seemed to be unboxing a chocolate frog. Hermione saw Harry and waved him over and he saw that the two of them were going over Ron’s homework. 

“You can’t just say, ‘this was another of the goblin wars, big scary goblin attacked wicked scary goblin with knives and then they all fought each other because they’re goblins and they have wars.’ That’s not an accurate account of the war, and it does not hold the relevant information from the reading, and frankly Ron, it’s racist. Or speciest, I suppose.”

Ron shrugged. “I mean, it’s not really wrong though, is it? This is what, the eighteenth goblin war?” 

Hermione shook her head. “The seventh, Ron.” 

Ron smirked. “That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

“No.”

“And it was about knives too, wasn’t it?”

“No, it was about a broken treaty regarding the seizure of vampire treasure following the conquest of --”

“But then they used  _ knives,  _ didn’t they?”

“Ron.” 

“And then they fought each other, like goblins do, didn’t they?”

“Ron, no.” 

“I think I’ve got it Hermione, but thank you. It’s just a wiza-- oh hey Harry!” Ron made eye contact with Harry clearly grateful for the rescue and hoping the addition of Harry could distract Hermione. Harry sat down across from the two of them on an old red velvet armchair. Hermione clearly did not want to be distracted. 

“Were you just about to say that it’s a  _ wizard thing,  _ Ronald?” Ron gulped. “Because I am every bit the magical person you are, and if you think for a moment that being raised in this culture is an excuse for a poorly written essay that shows both a lack of intelligence and the possession of dubious morals, you are clearly mistaken and I will have to reevaluate our friendship immediately.” Hermione drew her wand. “I have learned some rather nasty hexes and you know that I’ve done more work than you in the DA, so I do wonder what kind of practice you could help me with. To make up for your comment.” 

Ron looked at Harry and mouthed, “Help me mate.” Harry reached out and touched Hermione’s hand. 

“Of course you’re every bit the witch Ron’s a wizard. Neither of us could ever think otherwise.” 

Hermione looked at Harry suspiciously. 

“I think Ron was going to end his sentence saying, it’s just a Wizengamot thing, weren’t you?” 

Ron blinked his eyes furiously. “Yeah, of course, you know because the Wizengamot is terribly racist and always passing laws against creatures. Yeah. Like that law Umbridge is trying to pass against the centaurs. They’re like that with goblins too, so I guess it doesn’t really matter how history  _ was _ because most people are only ever going to see the goblin wars as goblins being goblins and using their knives.” Harry made a motioning gesture with his hands. “And that’s terrible.” Harry made a ‘go-on’ gesture. “And that’s terrible because it disregards the culture of magical beings and all beings deserve respect.” 

Hermione looked between the two of them. “I know that Harry saved your sorry arse and I could see him making the hand motions because you are, sorry Harry, but you are sitting  _ across  _ from me.” 

“Sorry, ‘Mione. I’m just trying to help out a friend. I do think you’re every bit the witch that I’m a wizard.” 

Hermione smiled warmly. “I know. I know you think that too Ron.  _ You’re _ just trying to get out of work.” She paused. “Is that true though, about the Wizengamot? I haven’t been following the policies yet, I’ve been reading up on the structure.” 

Ron sighed. “Yeah, it’s true. I know because my dad works in the ministry and he was in a right state about it. He thinks centaurs are almost as cool as muggles.” 

“That does sound like your dad.” Harry offered. 

“Well, I hope you both see that all beings do deserve respect and that the policies being passed are just awful. It’s like wizards can’t see anything other than themselves. Just look at how they treat house-elves!” Harry and Ron exchanged a look. “At least with SPEW we can make a difference and give them the liberty they deserve.” 

Ron shook his head. “They don’t want to be free.” 

“No Ron, it's just that they’ve never been given the chance.” Hermione closed her eyes and then reopened them. “How was your lesson with Snape, Harry?” 

Harry looked around and cast a silencing charm, and then a notice-me-not.

“It went well, actually.” 

Hermione looked shocked. “Really?” Her tone of voice implied a heavy amount of doubt. 

“Really. Don’t look so gobsmacked. I told him about how I learned to produce a Patronus, and then he sort of had me make one in my mind.” 

“Did it work?” Ron asked. He finally opened the chocolate frog box. 

“Yeah, kind of. Snape saw the memory I was using but then I made a mental Patronus and he said that it chased him out of my head.” 

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Of course.” She breathed. 

“Of course, what?” Ron asked. He bit off one leg of the chocolate frog. 

“That’s disgusting.” Hermione told him. Ron looked at Harry as he bit off the frog’s head. 

“It is mate.” Harry said. Ron plopped the rest of the decapitated frog in his mouth. “It very much is.” 

“It’s just chocolate.” Ron said with his mouth full. Hermione ignored him. 

“Your Patronus would work for occlumency because it protects you from memories.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean by that?”

Hermione waved her hands. “When dementors get close to me, all I feel is cold and hopeless. But you feel cold and hopeless  _ and  _ you relive your worst memories. That doesn’t happen to me. Or to Ron. Or to anyone else, as far as I can tell. So your Patronus drives off the dementors but also your bad memories, you see?” 

“So then with Snape, it drove off the access to my mind because that’s what a Patronus can do for me. It protects my memories.” Harry said.    
  


Hermione beamed. “Exactly. And the Patronus is supposed to be a protector but it’s kind of vague as to what it’s supposed to protect. Maybe the Patronus works like a placebo. It will protect your mind as long as you think it will protect your mind.”

Harry thought for a moment. “It will protect whatever I feel it needs to protect.”

Ron was looking down at his card forlornly. “Maybe that’s why your Patronus is so powerful too. Like when you chased off about a hundred dementors for kicks. Yours is extra special, unlike this god-forsaken card.” 

Harry laughed. “So who did you get then?” 

Ron hung his head. “Albus Dumbledore. This is what, my twelfth Albus? It’s not enough that I see the man, oh no, I must also have him underneath my candy.” 

Hermione and Harry erupted into giggles. Harry’s eyes shone with mirth and he attempted to twinkle like the headmaster. “I assure you, my boy,” Harry said in his best Dumbledoor impression, “that all this is for the greater good. Sacrifices must be made. I accept the payment of chocolate frogs. Tidbit flibbet galore, my boy, tidbit flibber galore.” Harry paused. “Oh, and would you like a lemon drop?” 

The three of them looked around at one another for a moment and then started laughing so hard Harry saw sparkles. When they calmed down Hermione stood up and canceled the spells.

“I think we all need to go to bed. And Ron, do try to fix your essay for your own sake really.” Ron smiled. 

“Yes, mum.” He said. 

Harry and Ron stood together. “Goodnight Hermione.” Harry said. 

“Night Harry.” 

“Hey, what about me?” Ron said. Hermione shrugged. 

“What about you, Ron?” 

Hermione left for the girl’s dorms. Harry and Ron walked up to their room. 

“She’s not still mad at me, do you think?” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’d bet that she is.” 

Ron groaned and fell into bed. “Do you reckon she’ll forgive me?” 

Harry smiled. And took off his glasses. “She always does.” 

“Shut up you wankers.” Seamus grumbled. 

“You know you love us.” Harry quipped as he got into bed. 

“But hopefully not enough to wank.” Ron added. Ron was hit in the face from a flying potted sprout. 

“Hey.” Neville said. “That was my plant.” 

Seamus groaned again. “Sorry Neville. It was closest to me.” 

There was some rustling and then Seamus said, “Ow.” Neville laughed quietly. Harry drew the curtains around his four-poster and went to sleep dreaming of a brilliant stag.

…

The next morning Harry woke up feeling better than he had in ages, maybe since before Quirrell. He hadn’t dreamed of anything other than Prongs, and after all the dreams he’d been having of tortures and rooms with too many doors, he felt like he quite deserved the rest. The boy-who-lived-to-dream-of-a-spirit-stag. Much better than the boy-who-lived-to-have-too-many-nightmares-about-a-boy-who-died.  _ Cedric.  _ The name came unwelcome in his mind and rattled around until Harry saw the boy in the graveyard and a cold voice demanding,  _ “Kill the spare.”  _

“You’re the spare.” Harry muttered. “Just another dark lord on the rise. Nothing special, really. Not like a Hufflepuff being the pride of a school.” Harry sighed. The words didn’t help.  _ Because it was a terrible tragedy, wasn’t it? Traumatizing too. It’s amazing that I’m even remotely functional.  _

Feeling like there was no real point to wallowing in the grief and self-disgust that had bubbled up, Harry opted to cast a quick Tempus, (it was half-past five) and then reviewed his potions essay because he had nothing better to do. Or nothing better to do that he felt like doing. 

At seven the other boys woke up and Harry and Ron made their way to the great hall and Harry valiantly attempted to spread jam on his toast without spilling any on his eggs, which he accomplished, but Fred and George noticed along the way and seemed to decide that levitating individual drops of blackberry jam onto his eggs was most amusing. 

“Stop that.” Harry demanded. 

“Stop what?” The twins asked together. They levitated a bit of marmalade over onto his forkful of uncontaminated egg. Harry put down his fork and pushed the plate away. 

“You know what, I’m not that hungry.” 

  
The twins exchanged a look but then Hermione glared at the two of them. 

“You,” she said to Harry, passing him a new plate piled high with vegetables, eggs, and sausage, “need to eat more.” Harry began to eat slowly. “And you,” Hermione said, still glaring at the twins, “have got to stop jeopardizing people you care about for the sake of fun. It’s only a good prank if even the people being pranked can laugh about it, if not in the moment, at least afterward. Otherwise, it’s just plain mean.” 

The twins looked hard at Hermione. “Did you,” Fred said.

“Tell us,” this was George,

“The proper way to perform a prank?” They chorused together. “Oh Hermione, you shouldn’t have.” 

Ron nodded. “Now they’re going to prank you until you find it fun.” 

Hermione bared her teeth. “I have no problems with self-defense and I am good at counter-jinxes.” Hermione paused. “I have invented two spells, however, and they don’t have a counter that anyone knows other than myself. I’d hate to be forced to practice them on Weaslys, but I suppose that the twins seem perfectly content to test out their items on my Gryffindors.”

“They do consent, you know.” George said. 

Hermione stood up. “Well, we have double potions. Come along Harry and Ron.” 

Harry and Ron began to follow her. “Yes, Mum.” Ron said

. 

Harry laughed. “You’ve been threatening people quite a lot recently, haven’t you?” Hermione grinned. 

“What can I say Harry,” she said airily, “I’m a dangerous woman.” 

Harry hadn’t stopped laughing. “I suppose, Hermione,” He wiped the corner of his eye, “You could say just that.”

“She is.” Ron said. “Dangerous, I mean.”

Hermione looked at Ron. “To you, I am the greatest danger.” 

Harry bumped her shoulder. “To me,” he said, “you are the greatest witch of our generation.” 


	3. Practical Potions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape changes his teaching style just slightly and Harry wishes for a different past.

Harry entered the potions room and shivered slightly in the cold before Hermione steered him to a table and sat down beside him. Ron attempted to join them, but Hermione shook her head and said, “go be with Neville, Ron.” 

Ron looked murderous. “And why should I? I’m always potion partners with _you_ on days we’re brewing something dangerous.” 

Harry looked at Ron. “How do you know we’re brewing something dangerous today?” 

Ron shrugged. “Well it’s Snape,” he said, as if that explained everything. He was right of course. 

“Ron,” Hermione said, “I think it’s time for you to stand up on your own two feet because you thanked me for my help, but you’ve got it. It’s a _Wizengamot_ thing.” 

Ron glared at Harry. “This is your fault, this is all your fault.” 

Harry glared back at Ron. “Yes, Ron. But I can’t help you now. Let goblins be goblins.” 

They both made eye contact, then laughed, and then Ron went to go sit by Neville. 

Draco perked his head up from where it had been bowed and muttering to one Theodore Nott, and he turned his body toward Harry. 

“Oi, Potter, how does it feel being so dumb you’ve got to take remedial potions?” The Slytherins all seemed to laugh but mostly out of obligation. Harry shrugged. 

“I couldn’t begin to tell you if I tried. I’m afraid I’m lacking the vocabulary due to my idiocy.” 

The class looked at Harry and then back at Draco. Draco seemed to be having a difficult time forming words because Harry had seemingly agreed with him, but clearly, Harry had not been made to look the fool. 

Snape, as always, had impeccable timing and entered the class with his robes billowing wildly. 

“Ah, yes, the mental insufficiencies of Potter men are well known amidst most pureblood circles.” Snape said. The Slytherins all gave an uncomfortable chuckle and the Gryffindors all glared at Snape. 

Hermione leaned in to whisper in Harry’s ear. “That was kind of rude of him to say.” 

Harry considered the comment. “I mean, I suppose it’s the most I’ve heard about my family all year, so who am I to judge the content really?” It was clearly the wrong thing to say because Hermione looked all sad for a moment and Neville had heard the whole thing and said, “That’s alright Harry. We can be your family.” 

Harry turned his head and whispered, “Thanks Neville, but I’m doing fine these days anyway.” 

Neville gave him a long look and then Ron whispered something in Neville’s ear far more quietly than Hermione could manage, and then Neville looked away. Meanwhile, Snape had set up a table at the front of the class and had two ingredients before him. 

“Today we will be brewing Visonium Nocte. Tell me, Potter, what does this potion accomplish?” 

Hermione’s hand was in the air, but Harry had reviewed that morning and the knowledge was still fresh. 

“It’s a night vision potion, professor.” 

If Snape was surprised that Harry knew the answer, he didn’t let it show. “And how long, Potter, does the night vision last?” 

Harry frowned and tried to think of the answer. “Any day now, Potter.” Draco was sneering so hard, Harry felt concerned for his face. 

“I think it depends, professor.” 

Now Snape did look momentarily surprised before his mask was firmly back in place. “And what, Potter, does it depend upon?” 

Harry considered. “The age of the ingredients, professor. The older the Dipsa skin, the longer the potion will last.” 

Snape looked at Draco. “I see. What are the dangers of Dipsa skin, Mr. Malfoy?” 

Draco puffed out his chest. “Anybody would know that a live Dipsa is so poisonous their bite kills before you even know you’ve been bitten. You have to check the skin to make sure there’s no poison residue left before you touch it, let alone add it into your cauldron.” 

Snape smiled. “Very good Malfoy. Ten points to Slytherin.” 

Hermione fumed. “You gave just as good an answer as Malfoy. Snape's so biased with the points it’s not even subtle at this point. How dare he abuse his power as a teacher.” 

Harry looked at her. “You’ve come a long way from first year with your unending trust in authority figures, haven’t you?” Harry asked. 

Hermione huffed. “Well, it’s not as if they’ve been very helpful the last few years. I can learn, you know.” 

Neville leaned back toward their table. “I’m pretty sure the whole school knows that, Hermione.” 

Snape pulled out his wand. “It has come to my attention,” Snape began, “that some of you will benefit from practical demonstrations.” 

Harry smiled widely at this introduction to whatever Snape was about to do.

“I have gotten weary of students melting cauldrons,” Snape looked very pointedly in the direction of Neville, “and I am beginning to suspect that at least some of you lack the basic understanding of how to prepare ingredients. As such, I will now perform a practical demonstration of how to check the Dipsa skin for poison as well as how to correctly dice the bodhi root.” 

Harry sat up straighter. 

“I will expect all of you to pay me rapt attention and if I see even one person fail to accomplish their preparation of these ingredients after I have so graciously taken the time to instruct you, the consequences will be severe.” Snape paused and looked around at the classroom. “I suppose you should like to take notes.” There was a rustle and then everyone pulled out their notebooks and observed how Snape used the blunt end of the knife to turn the skin this way and that looking for “remnants of purple.” He also had them get out their wands and cast a simple poison detection spell, which would glow if there were anything poisonous on the skin. Snape had told them it could be useful to check for poison in one’s food, should they be paranoid. 

He then showed them how to dice the roots into identical cubes and the demonstration was over. “Go on then, I daresay you have to work efficiently if you want to be done by the end of the class.” Hermione shook out of the stupor first of having Snape actually _instruct_ them on how to make a potion and went to grab ingredients. Half of the class followed her. Harry made eye contact with Snape and gave him a quick thumbs up. Snape’s lip curled. 

  
“Detention, Mr. Potter, for a rude gesture.” Harry did his best to look affronted but Ron beat him to it. 

“That slimy git.” He said loudly. Snape arched an eyebrow.

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasly.” Ron went red in the face and then Hermione returned and so did Neville, and Hermione cut the roots while Harry inspected the snakeskin. Malfoy sauntered over and looked down at their progress. 

“Were remedial potions not enough, Potter? Had to get detention too?” 

Hermione said, “Go away Malfoy.” 

Harry cast the spell to detect poison and it came up negative. “That’s strange,” Harry said, “I could have sworn there was something toxic right behind me.” 

Draco seemed about to say something, but Snape had come to tower over him. “Arrogant, Mr. Potter, just like your father. Tell me, Mr. Potter, did you get your inflated ego from your family?” 

“No, Professor,” Harry said blithely, “just my morbid obesity.” Snape stared down at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Detention, Mr. Potter, for mocking a professor.” 

“But that’s two now, Professor.” Harry said indignantly. 

“I believe it has gone up to four, Mr. Potter.” The whole class was watching by this point, and Harry decided to do something quite rude. 

“You can’t count very well, can you?” Harry said. The entire class gasped. Snape looked visibly furious but then he smoothed over his face and let out a very controlled breath. 

“Mr. Potter, I had meant to stop spending time with your unpleasant person, but I’m afraid you have secured yourself detention until the end of the term. I suppose you and cleaning materials will get quite well acquainted. And fifteen points from Gryffindor for your cheek.” 

Snape walked away and lead Draco to his seat. Hermione leaned over. 

“Why’d you go after him like that? It was stupid and he’s supposed to be teaching you. You shouldn’t alienate him.” 

Harry leaned back until their heads were touching. “I knew the answers today. That makes my extra lessons with Snape suspicious. Why would someone who knows all the relevant facts behind a potion and can brew a perfectly acceptable version of it need remedial lessons?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You were rude because you did well publicly. You wanted detention.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, and now I have an excuse to keep seeing Snape.” 

“Because everyone saw how rude you were to him, and no one will question his reaction.” Hermione gave Harry a half-smile. “You can be brilliant when you want to be, can’t you?” 

Harry stirred the cauldron, twice clockwise, and four times counterclockwise. “I’m supposed to be the shining light of hope after all.” 

At the end of the class, everyone had managed to produce a potion that was, if not the exact shade of dusty rose the potion was supposed to show, at least a shade of greyish pink that was recognizable. Snape looked at their vials and said, “I suppose the practical demonstration was a success. I will hold you all to higher standards from this point forward.” 

Harry walked out of the classroom feeling lighter than he had ever felt after a potions lesson. He and Hermione had produced a near-perfect potion, and Neville and Ron had made something that looked to be in the general ballpark of decent. 

Ron looked utterly confused. “If he hadn’t gone after you Harry, I might’ve thought he wasn’t Snape at all.” 

Neville nodded. “He actually tried to teach us, and I got to prepare the roots. I think I did a good job. I never think that in Potions.”

Hermione seemed pleased as well. “The poison detection spell is quite useful in any event, just by its own merit.”

Harry was about to say something when Draco appeared out of nowhere and stood in front of him. 

“Did detentions with Umbridge give you an appetite for professors, Potter?” He asked. 

Harry rubbed his hand unconsciously, but Draco tracked the movement. Draco grabbed Harry’s hand and looked at the words. 

“I must not tell --” Harry snatched back his hand. 

“Courtesy of Umbridge, if you must know.” He said scathingly. “A permanent reminder of my taste, I suppose.” 

Draco’s face was ashen. “But that looked like the work of a blood quill. Professors can’t use that on students.”  
  


Harry glared at Draco. “Isn’t your father on the school board? If anyone can control professors, it's you. Couldn’t you just, ‘tell your father,’ like you always say you will? Or is it just that he has the authority and you’re nothing but his little puppet?” 

Draco looked angry for a moment, but then he smirked. “Why Potter, are you jealous that I have a father?”

Harry could feel his anger threatening to overwhelm him and he heard a rushing in his ears. So then he breathed deeply, thought about his eleventh birthday and his first-ever birthday cake, saw the hints of a stag, and let out his breath.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes, Draco, I am extremely jealous that you have a father that writes you letters and who is moderately interested in your life. You also have a mother, which I may be even more envious of if I’m being honest. I’m green with envy, you might say.” Harry began to walk away but he looked over his shoulder as he left. “I’ve been told my eyes are the brightest green and that they shine like emeralds. Envy suits me.” And with that Harry took Hermione and Ron and slipped into a passageway, and they were gone. 

Draco stared after them for a long time. 

…

After dinner, Harry made his way to Professor Snape’s office and knocked on the door. It opened for him. He went inside to see Snape once again lounging by the side of the desk. 

“Ah, Mr. Potter. A pleasure to see you once again.” Snape said. 

“Um, thanks Professor,” Harry said. “You too, I guess.” 

Snape pursed his lips. “Do not guess, Potter. Know. Have knowledge. Do not fill up your head with nothing.” 

Harry nodded. “Alright then.” He said. 

“What, Mr. Potter,” Snape began, “was your reprehensible behavior in potions class today about?” Despite his words, Snape did not seem angry. 

“I just sort of plan to start doing better in potions these days, so I thought I might need an excuse to keep studying occlumency. It doesn’t really make sense for me to be having ‘remedial potions’ if I’m outperforming Ron and Neville.” Harry said. 

Snape nodded once, as if in approval. “Clever, Mr. Potter. I had thought as much when you seemed entirely unconcerned that I had assigned you detention for a thumbs up. I had thought perhaps it was a fluke, but you have shown today that you do in fact have some modicum of intelligence.” 

Harry smiled. “Keep this up, Professor, and I might actually get the big ego you always accuse me of having.”  
  


Snape’s eyes narrowed. Then, without warning, he said “Legimillens.” 

Harry tried to think of a memory but he couldn’t think of anything fast enough, so he decided to go with a wish instead. Sometimes he could use wishes to make his Patronus. 

…

_Potter looked young, maybe around five, and he was in a large bedroom on a bed with red and gold trimming. “Potter Manor,” his thoughts supplied. Severus looked around. The room was certainly not a part of any Potter Manor Severus had seen._

_Little Harry was on the bed, and a woman who looked a great deal like Lily was leaning over him. Snape began to push against the memory, or whatever it was he was watching. He saw an eleven-year-old Harry staring up at a mirror, the mirror of Erised, Snape supposed, and seeing his whole family. Lily and James, and Charlus and Dorea, and the whole cohort of family the boy had never met._

_He kept pushing and saw an older Harry, fourteen years old, in a graveyard battling the Dark Lord. A beam of light was cast between the two wands and Severus saw numerous men and women come out of the light, some of whom he knew, and some of whom he didn’t, and he saw both James and Lily appear. Severus could only stare at Lily for a moment before he turned away and focused on her son._

_“When we tell you to, we need you to run,” They were saying, “We love you, Harry.”_

_And Severus heard that echo “love you Harry,” repeated somehow in the room of the little boy and the woman who looked almost like Lily leaning over him. She kissed his forehead and said, “I love you, Harry.”_

_  
__The little Harry said, “Love you too, mum.”_ _  
  
_

_Severus felt the sensation of warmth and heard the choir sing, and he was once again facing the stag. It was smaller this time, and it seemed lazy. Severus tried to see something beyond the stag and he thought he perhaps saw the outlines of a forest, but as he got closer to the trees the stag trotted right over and Severus found himself --_

Back in his own mind, braced against the desk. Potter was asleep again. Severus sent a stinging hex and the boy woke up, rubbing his neck. Severus muttered the counter. 

“I’m pretty sure Prongs came out again, Professor.” 

Severus looked at the boy. “He did, yes. You were never kissed goodnight by your mum.” It wasn’t a question. 

Potter bit his lip. “Sometimes,” he said very quietly, “I can just kind of imagine what it would have been like to have a family growing up. I think, or really, I know that my parents loved me. So I sort of imagine what it would have felt like to feel that love, and it makes a Patronus.” 

Snape nodded. “It was an interesting approach. The memory I saw wasn’t a real one, and that is very advanced occlumency indeed.” Potter seemed proud of himself, but Snape wasn’t about to give the boy a complete victory. “When I pushed against the fantasy, however, I was able to see two very real memories. One of you in front of the mirror of Erised, and another of you in the graveyard. Why do you think I saw those two memories and none others?”

Potter looked pale but thoughtful. “I suppose it’s because those are the only memories I really have of my parents.” 

Severus had expected the answer. “I thought as much. Your mother looked almost right, but not quite herself in your fantasy. I imagine the lack of reference material affected the realism of the specter.” 

Potter looked up quite sharply. “You knew my mum, then, Professor?” 

Severus considered the boy. “How about this, Potter. I think we’ve done enough practice for the night but I want to have a conversation with you about a variety of things. How about for every question I answer, you have to answer one of mine. As soon as one of us is done, the conversation will be over.” 

Potter considered. “How will I know if you’re telling the truth?” 

Severus cocked his head. “I suppose we’ll just have to trust each other.” 

Potter snorted. “Alright then, I’ll go first. Did you know my mum?” 

Severus nodded. “Yes.” 

Harry glared. “Nothing more to add on?” 

Severus smiled. “You’ll have to ask more open-ended questions if you want better answers.” Severus paused for a moment. _Did your uncle and aunt beat you? Are you emotionally stable? Do you need help outside of what your friends can offer you? Too soon, Severus. He’ll run away from you._ “When was the first time someone said they loved you?” 

Harry shrugged. “I imagine my mum and dad when I was a baby.”

Severus begrudgingly admired the answer. “I meant that you could remember.” He said. 

Harry tilted his head to one side. “You’ll have to specify then. How did you know my mum?” 

Severus stilled and took a deep breath. “We grew up together. You could say she was my first friend. I taught her about magic and Petunia got mad when the two of us went to Hogwarts and she couldn’t.” 

“I bet,” Harry said. “She probably wanted to get an acceptance letter just to burn it and say she had told them no instead of the other way around.”

“Oh, no,” Snape said, “She was quite adamant about her desire to attend. Wrote the headmaster and everything. She was heartbroken she couldn’t use magic.”

Harry frowned. “Then why did she --, no nevermind.” 

Severus looked again at the boy. “What is the comprehensive story of the first time someone told you that they loved you, that you can remember/”  
  


Harry glared slightly but then relaxed. “Hermione told me my second year when I was in the hospital after the basilisk fight. It was a throwaway comment really, she just said, ‘Harry don’t scare me like that! I love you and I’d hate to lose you.’” Harry smiled warmly. “I told her then that I loved her too, and I think my eyes were suspiciously wet, so now she tells me she loves me semi-regularly, and sometimes Ron will say it too.” 

Severus considered all this information. “To clarify, the first person you can remember telling you that they loved you was when you were twelve years old after you had nearly died?” 

Harry nodded. _And we wonder why he is so reckless. He was given affection only once there was concern that he might_ **_die._ **

“Why do you only ever compare me to my dad, Professor?” Harry asked. 

Severus examined one potion-stained finger. “What do you mean by that, Potter?” 

“Well it’s always, ‘you’re arrogant just like your father, Potter,’ or ‘you’re just as much a trouble-maker as your father, Potter,’ or ‘you’re just as stupid as your father, Potter.’ You never say anything about me being like my mum, not even that my eyes look like hers which is something practically everyone else says. But you two were friends. So why do you never compare me to my mum, Professor?”

Severus was silent for a long moment. “I suppose, Potter, it is because you have failed thus far to be exceptional. Perhaps if you had ever produced a perfect potion, I might have said, ‘excellent, Potter, just like your mother.” 

Harry was holding on to every word. “So she was good at potions then?”

Severus smiled fondly. “Second only to me. She was first in charms though. Flitwick would have adopted her and given her his life-savings if he could have. That man did so adore her.” 

Harry seemed to have written the words down. “Alright then, Professor. Do you have another question for me?”

Snape nodded. “The last one, I think. Do you realize that the way your relatives treat you is wrong?” 

Harry went unnaturally still. He blinked his eyes a few times. Then he gave a self-deprecating smile and seemed to close off. “I mean it isn’t really. They’re not the ones who left me on a doorstep.” And with that cryptic comment, Harry went out the door and left Severus to ponder the whole meeting. 

_The first time someone told him, “I love you,” he was twelve years old and had nearly died. He doesn’t see much wrong with his relatives._

_“They’re not the ones who left me on a doorstep.” So who is he blaming? What can I do?_

The thought came unbidden to Severus that night before he went to sleep. 

He thought of a baby left outside on a doorstep in the dead of winter. The baby had nothing but a thin blanket that could not keep out the cold, a burning scar, and a note. Who wrote that note?

_Albus Dumbledore._


	4. Well Placed Concerns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus does not like cats, cat-ladies love Severus. Twinkle, twinkle twinkle Dumble's eyes, he is such a teapot sometimes
> 
> I cannot rhyme, but that's okay!

Severus found himself unable to sleep due to all the thoughts about Harry’s home life left drifting in his head. He knew that he could easily stuff them in a bottle, hide them on a shelf, and leave them collecting dust in his mind’s organized storage. He was a talented Occlumens after all. But Severus found that he did not want to file away his misgivings about Potter’s possible home-life quite yet, mostly because he felt confused about how the pampered prince may not have been pampered. He was missing pieces, he knew that, and he wanted answers. Severus had always enjoyed puzzles.

When it was finally morning, Severus had made a plan. He knew that Arabella Figg was an order member who lived nearby Harry’s home -- house -- at number four Privet Drive. Feeling somewhat disgusted at the thought of willingly spending time near the crazy cat lady who smelled so viciously of cabbage, Severus drank a cup of nausea-relieving tea before floo-ing into her home. He arrived holding a bouquet of catnip dipped in a specially brewed nutritive potion for the fur of cats, because he was quite certain that a happy Figg would be more open after receiving a gift, especially with regards to information about Harry’s childhood. 

As it was, Mrs. Figg seemed not at all surprised by his sudden entrance, although she did seem rather occupied. Severus saw her tangled up with no less than six cats and she seemed to be scratching all of their bellies as they kneaded her hideous purple skirt. Severus’ nose wrinkled when he smelled an odor of week-old cabbage mixed with musty fur and possibly a hint of urine. As Severus stepped out of the fireplace, Mrs. Figg’s eyes focused sharply on his bouquet, and she smiled quite widely. 

“Well, don’t just stand there my dear. Come in! Come in! I’ll just go and put on the kettle.” Mrs. Figg began to shuffle, roughly eight cats now choosing to follow her. 

“Ah, yes, that would be delightful,” Severus said, attempting to hide his grimace. 

“Well, it’s no problem for me at all, my dear. Do put those delightful treats in the lockbox above the mantle. The password is “keepsake,” and it will open for you. The cats are quite clever because of the kneazle blood, and I’m afraid they kept getting into everything else.” 

Bemused, Severus did indeed find a lockbox on the mantle, it was large too, and pinker than Umbridge’s bows. Severus said with no small amount of revolt, “keepsake.” The effect was immediate. The infernal cats all turned to him in rapt attention and began jumping and finding their way over to the box. No sooner had Severus placed the catnip inside the box did paws begin swiping their way inside. “ _Visager,”_ he said, and the cats were all moved back a few paces. He closed the box, and then all the cats gave him frankly baleful looks and returned to whatever it was the cats had been doing. 

Mrs. Figg had returned from her kitchen and had gone to sit on a fur-covered couch that might have been green in its very distant past. 

“Would you care to join me?” 

_Of course not you hideous woman. I want nothing to do with you or with your vermin._ “I would be honored, my lady.” 

Mrs. Figg blushed, and it was not a delicate shade of rose but a deep crimson that bordered on purple. “Oh, no need to call me that.” She said breathlessly. Severus sank down into a wooden chair across from her full of grace and he smiled coyly. 

“Oh, but that is what you are, my lady.” Severus made deliberate eye contact. 

_“Goodness, he’s so handsome.”_ Her thoughts were easy to pick out. _“I’m almost sure he’s here for Harry, but maybe after I could invite him to stay awhile. I don’t think he’s seeing anyone. What if --”_ Snape had little interest in the rambling affections of a cat woman, but he did feel like he had adequately ingratiated himself to her. 

“Well,” Mrs. Figg said, her blush deepening, “what is it you are here for, Mr. Snape?” 

“Call me Severus,” Severus said, biting his cheek to keep from betraying his true emotions. 

“Severus, then,” Mrs. Figg said, smiling brightly. 

“I was wondering if you could tell me anything you noticed about Harry’s home life. I’ve been noticing some signs that point to something rather, let us say unsavory in nature, and I’m trying to do my utmost to ensure I don’t miss anything.” There, that was rather vague, and it would be up to the woman to steer the conversation. 

Mrs. Figg sighed. “It is always about Harry, isn’t it?” Severus did not reply. “I don’t see why you’re only here now. I sent many letters about the whole problem back when Harry was little, but Albus never did anything about them, and he never replied. I stopped writing them years ago. Could you imagine? If I wrote everything the Dursleys do that seem a little bit off, I might have written a novel by now. A novel! I breed cats, Severus, I do. I’m not an Auror. I’m not a muggle police-woman. I breed cats. How am I supposed to do anything?” Severus stared at her, not at all liking where this was going. “And what is there to do? I told him the boy wasn’t cared for, I told him his family was cruel, I told him I saw bruises --” 

Severus interrupted, “Bruises, you say?” 

Mrs. Figg waved him off angrily, “yes, bruises! On his arms, mostly. He wore clothing that was so baggy and the cats would burrow inside and when they did I would catch flashes of skin that looked most definitely bruised. And his glasses were always broken, and his cousin Dudley was always chasing him about. Maybe they were just rough-housing, Severus, but I do know that no five-year-old boy should spend all day gardening and then telling me about how he learned to flip pancakes whilst he’s still skinny as a rake. And I told Albus that something wasn’t right in that house, not at all, not when the boy thought his parents died in a car crash.” 

“He thought that?” Severus was feeling rather faint. 

“Oh yes. Thought they were drunks too and was quite ashamed. I got so upset that when he was seven I wrote to Albus and said that I didn’t care about his plan to keep little Harry safe from the dangers of a madman, I had to tell him about his heritage, and I could tell him about his world because I am a squib after all, and maybe he could stop feeling quite so alone.” 

Severus clenched his fists. “And what did Albus say?” 

Mrs. Figg held up her hands to the ceiling as though she were in prayer. “What did he say? The first letter I’ve gotten back in four years, and he tells me he’s coming to see for himself. So he comes to my house, and he looks at young Harry with me, working in the garden, and he says some spell, and he tells me that Harry is doing well enough. Then he tells me that so long as Harry doesn’t know who he is, the death eaters won’t either and that the safest thing is to leave Harry alone and not tell him anything about magic. And he had me make a vow so I couldn’t tell the boy a thing.” 

Severus was seething. “Did he now?” 

Mrs. Figg nodded. “He did, he did. And then I stopped writing letters and I learned first aid, and sometimes the boy would let me treat his injuries.” 

Severus did not care for the information he had learned one bit. “I’m sure that was the best thing you could have done.” 

Mrs. Figg looked at Severus. “It doesn’t matter if it was the best thing or not. It is what happened. All of us adults should have done more, especially for a boy who has been hunted since he was in diapers. He had monsters outside of the house and monsters inside of the house, but I’m afraid he never really got to see much else. The question now, Severus, is are you going to do anything about it? I will fight for that boy, I will, he saved his cousin from dementors at no small personal danger even though his cousin was headed to prison. His cousin was a right menace and a bully, and he hurt Harry more times than either of us could count. And Harry still saved that boy. He’s better a person than me, or you, or certainly Albus, and he deserves so much more than he’s been given.” _It isn’t more than you deserve. It is far, far less._ “So what are you going to do about it?”

Severus stood up abruptly. He chose an answer that would satisfy the cat woman without making any real promises. “Everything. I will do everything I need to do for him.” _Is this promise really just for her sake?_

Mrs. Figg stood up as well and her cats all rolled back on their haunches. “Good,” she said positively feral, “give him hell for me, will you?” 

And Severus didn’t even have to ask who she was talking about, because Severus already knew. He grabbed a handful of floo powder and said, “Headmaster’s office, Hogwarts!” Green flames erupted and he found himself facing familiar twinkling eyes. 

…

Harry grabbed a quick breakfast and went in search of Professor Flitwick. He’d never really bothered to care about the fact that some of his teachers had taught his parents and might know something about them. He’d asked Hagrid about his parents, but Hagrid wasn’t really a teacher, and only knew about his dad. McGonagall had also talked very briefly about James’ skills in transfiguration, which Harry supposes his dad must have had to have become an animagus so young. But Harry has never spoken to Flitwick before, and somehow he felt that the charms professor might be able to tell Harry a little bit more about his mum. “That man did so adore her,” Snape had said. 

In almost no time at all, and after telling Hermione he was going to ask Flitwick about something, which Hermione had almost certainly assumed was dueling which is what she told Ron, Harry found himself in front of Flitwick’s office in Ravenclaw tower. 

He knocked on the door in three rapid taps, and Flitwick’s voice said, “Come in if you please.” 

Harry came in slowly because he remembered the time Flitwick had read his name first year and fallen down. He didn’t want to startle the man, and Flitwick certainly looked surprised. 

“Ah, Mr. Potter,” Flitwick said. “What a pleasure indeed. I had not known you were struggling with the material. You seem to be doing very well recently. Better, in fact, that you have been before if I dare to say so.”

Harry gave a cautious smile. “Thank you, Professor. I’ve been sleeping better.” Harry had been dreaming of a stag since that first breakthrough, and though he couldn’t sleep much past early morning, he always woke up more rested than he really had any right to be. He’d been spending the two or so hours before the rest of the dorm woke up to read and revise classwork. He’d been doing better all around the board. 

Flitwick smiled toothily. “Oh, indeed? Sleep is so very important. If you’re not here about charms, then Mr. Potter what is it that I can help you with?” 

Harry ran his hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “Well, that’s the thing, Professor. It’s not that I need help with charms, but I was wondering if you could answer some questions for me.” 

Flitwick seemed delighted. “I always love to help students! I would be happy to be of service. Here, take a seat.” Flitwick’s office was circular in shape, with six windows that made the sunlight shine in a star. The whole office was colored in various shades of blue with warm bronze accents. Flitwick’s desk looked like a hunk of almost molten bronze, and his chair was a dusty blue behind it. The desk and chair were quite small, but Flitwick was quite short, by human standards at any rate. There were book-shelves of bronze built into the wall, going all around the room in concentric circles, filled to the brim with tomes. Above each window, there was a weapon. Harry saw three windows adorned with daggers, two with crossbows, and one with a sword. Harry had been invited to sit down in a comfy blue armchair across from Flitwick’s desk, and located at the edge of the sunlight star. Harry found himself wishing he had come to Flitwick’s office when he was younger. The Professor seemed more genuine than almost any adult Harry had ever come into contact with. Harry sat. 

“Um, sir,” Harry began, “I was wondering if you could tell me a bit about my mum.” 

Harry sneaked a glance at Flitwick who seemed frozen for a moment before the Professor's eye’s shone with joy and his face was not smiling but seemed so happy, and so impossibly sad. 

“It would be my honor.” Flitwick waved his wand and some tea found itself inside a china cup and floating in front of Harry. “Drink some, won’t you?” Harry nodded. “Ah yes, Lily Evans. Best charms student I’ve ever taught.” Harry sipped some tea. “You know that I’m half-goblin, don’t you?” 

“Yes, Professor,” Harry said. 

“I imagine with Umbridge these days, the whole school now has an opinion on the matter, but the fact remains that I am half-goblin.” 

“I don’t think it changes how good of a teacher you are.” 

Flitwick laughed. “Well of course it doesn’t. I was the dueling champion for years in this country. But that’s beside the point. I am half-goblin so I can listen to magic. Goblins don’t need wands because they can hear magic in the fabric of the world, and they can listen, and they can speak to magic, and then magic can speak back. This is what it means to be a goblin.”

Privately Harry thought that at least some greed and pointy teeth factored into the equation, but he wasn’t going to contribute those ideas to the conversation. 

“I can still hear the hum of magic and this is why I am so proficient with charms and spells. I have my goblin blood.” 

Harry said, “I suppose that makes sense.” 

Flitwick grinned. “It does. You know what didn’t make sense?”

Harry shrugged. “No, but I hope you’ll tell me.” 

Flitwick’s grin got wider, “Your mother. She did not make sense.” 

  
“Why sir?” Harry asked. 

“Because Lily wasn’t like a normal witch. All you wizardkind, and not really you Harry, but the rest of them, all of wizardkind can’t hear magic. They say spells, which have power, but they can’t hear the hum of magic beneath their words. It’s why wizards struggle so much without words or a wand. The wand allows wizards to feel the magic, and words to focus it. But your mother, your mother was different. Magic sang for her.” Flitwick’s tone became wistful. “She was always talented, but in her fifth year, she began to hear magic’s voice. She could ask for things and the world would reply. She came to speak with me about it, and I remember her sitting where you are Harry, and saying she wanted to feel weightless. I told her to cast any charm she knew for weightlessness and envision how she wanted the charm to work. She said, casually as you please, ‘wingardium leviosa’ meaning to levitate her chair, and found herself floating up to my ceiling. She came down when she had enough and felt that the spell would no longer work.” 

Harry was staring dumbfounded. “But that’s not how the spell works.” 

“No, Harry. There is no spell.” 

Harry looked at Flitwick in utter confusion. “For people like goblins, and fairies, and your mother, spells become irrelevant. There is only magic. Magic’s voice. I cannot hear magic as clearly as your mother could. When you can hear magic sing, magic will do what you believe it will do. The limitations become your own thinking capabilities.” 

Harry thought for a long moment. “The blood wards.” He said. 

Flitwick produced a biscuit from nowhere and took a bite. “What do you mean?” 

“My mum, before she died, she made a sacrifice or something with her blood. It protects my house with my muggle relatives, but it also meant that Voldemort couldn’t touch me at all. I looked over the summer in the black family library to see something like it, except blood magic doesn’t work that way.” 

Flitwick looked so anguished for a moment, Harry swore his own heart was breaking. “That would be Lily, changing magic until the very end. A clever protection charm, never to be seen again.” Flitwick fell silent. Then he looked at Harry appraisingly. “I wonder if you will begin to hear magic sing this year. Have you heard any choirs?” 

Harry thought for a moment. When he cast a Patronus, he did hear something that sounded like singing. “Yes, actually,” Harry said startled. Flitwick leaned forward. 

“Oh, indeed. When?” 

“When I cast a Patronus.” Harry considered his professor. “It’s as if my Patronus can protect whatever I feel it needs to protect, and when I cast there’s this heavenly voice that’s so warm to listen to.” 

Flitwick tapped his pointed fingers against the desk. He spoke softly. “Your mother told me that the song was warm.” 

…

Severus stepped out of the fireplace glaring fiercely at the Headmaster. Dumbledore seemed entirely unconcerned. 

“Severus, my boy, how are classes treating you?” Dumbledore smiled. “Care for a lemon drop?”

“No, you incontinent old man, I would not.” Severus stood in front of Dumbledore practically vibrating with rage. Dumbledore seemed quite maudlin. 

“No one ever does. Sometimes I wonder if I should offer chocolate, but I don’t care for it much myself.” Dumbledore sighed loudly. 

Severus was not here to be distracted. “What do you know of Harry Potter’s childhood?” He asked sharply. Dumbledor’s eyes were twinkling in full force. 

“Do you care about the boy now? What brought this on? I thought he was a replica of his father. Have you gotten over your old grudges?” 

Severus grit his teeth. “Almost certainly not, and I still remember _your_ part in those years, and your complete and utter disregard to rules and human safety.” 

Albus put up hands his appeasingly. “Surely, Severus, you haven’t come all this way to berate me about your childhood trauma and school life bully. The past should remain in the past, this dwelling isn’t healthy, my boy.”

_I will not be distracted. I have spied against the dark lord, I can ask questions to this gossamer robe-wearing manipulator._

“Be that as it may, I believed I asked you about Harry’s childhood.” 

“He was with his family,” Dumbledore said. “His only remaining blood relations.” 

Severus released a breath. “Yes, I know that, as does most of Hogwarts. My question is, how much do you know of how he was treated?” 

Albus was still twinkling. “What brought this on? Have you come to care for him after everything?” _Perhaps._

“I am helping Potter learn Occlumency, on your orders I might add.” 

Dumbledore seemed interested. “Oh, and how has young Harry been doing?”

Severus couldn’t help the small burst of pride. “Surprisingly well, really. He’s been using an innovative technique. I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

“What has he been doing?” Dumbledore had given Severus his full attention.

“He makes a mental Patronus if you must know.”

“Fascinating. Interesting that something so light protects him against mind magic, which is often dark, but then again young Harry has always been the exception to nearly every rule anyone has ever tried to place on him. I suppose it must be the infamous Potter luck.” Dumbledore chuckled. “I am glad that you are helping him, my boy. He needs it.”

Severus let out another breath. “Don’t call me that. I have never been your boy. The point of the matter is that when I was in a session with the boy I came across a disturbing memory of his home life from this past summer. The boy was near death from starvation and his aunt refused him dinner and gave him only a boxful of raisins. His uncle beat his head into the wall until Potter was bleeding. And then Potter got up and cleaned up his own blood, calmly, as though the experience was a normal occurrence in his life. You cannot expect me to leave such a situation without investigation.” 

Dumbledore seemed far less jovial. “Ah. No. You could not do so in good conscious.” 

Severus scowled. “Clearly. I went to visit Arabella Figg to see if I could learn more. Mrs. Figg told me she wrote to you with her misgivings and when she was so concerned about him that she was going to help him find his community, you had her swear an oath not to tell him about the magical world. She stopped writing you letters. _Did you or did you not **know** what was going in **that house**_?” Severus’ voice was deadly quiet, and he spoke in a carefully controlled tone. 

“He would have been ruined had he stayed in the wizarding world,” Dumbledore said. 

“Like he was by his own family? Ruined beyond a lifetime of self-doubt, and no love, and no safe place to call home?” 

“Hogwarts is his home,” Dumbledore said confidently. 

“So what, are you his family now? Do you love him, Professor? Have you given him a happy childhood?” 

“He has been happy.”

“He killed a man possessed by the dark lord in your school when he was eleven, he slew a basilisk and saved the youngest Weasley when he was twelve, he uncovered the innocence of godfather, faced off with a wolf and fought off a horde of dementors when he was thirteen! He was thirteen and he could already cast a Patronus because if the rumors are to be believed which I very much find myself inclined to do, he relived the memory of his _mother’s death_ when they got near to him. When he was fourteen, he was forced into a tournament by a magically binding contract which makes absolutely no sense, how on earth can someone enter another person into a magically binding contract without their consent? If the world worked that way, I’d have forced the dark lord into a contract to no longer hurt muggle-borns and to cease all activities with death eaters. And you did nothing for him. You let him compete in a tournament that seemed so clearly designed to bring him to his death. And when he came back from having witnessed a resurrection ritual, having endured the cruciatus at _fourteen_ and having seen one of his classmates murdered, all you could focus on was interrogating him instead of asking him if he was okay.” Severus was panting slightly. 

“If you’re quite done,” Dumbledore said. “You did not help him out either in the Triwizard tournament. You were quite convinced he had done it himself, or at least would not mind the attention.” 

Severus closed his eyes. “You are right, of course. But that doesn’t mean I was correct in what I assumed about the boy.” Severus opened his eyes. “I was wrong, but you cannot expect me to believe you didn’t know the boy had been set up. I know you, Albus. I know you have engineered all of Potter’s end of the year adventures. Why else was the stone hidden in an obstacle course for first years, and why else would you reward an eleven-year-old boy risking his life rather than punish him for endangering himself? You encourage and condition Potter to constantly risk his life at great personal danger and you reward him only when he has nearly died.”

Dumbledore's twinkling came back in a soft sparkle. “I thought you were asking about young Harry’s childhood. It is unlike you to get so distracted.” 

Severus smiled, slow and cruel. Dumbledore's twinkling disappeared. “If Harry has seen such unspeakable horrors every year he has been at this school, if none of his teachers have ever tried to protect him or shown him any love except perhaps for Hagrid, and yet he still views this place like home, what does that tell you about the people with whom he has been raised? What does that tell you about his childhood? Where is worse than the place that has led him every year to some form or another of the dark lord who was trying to _kill him_?” 

Dumbledore seemed pale. “It can’t have been so bad. I've had many students try to remain in the castle for breaks. You were the same way. So many students have wanted to stay over the summers.”

Severus laughed and it was unpleasant and brittle. “Need I remind you that I was being abused in very much the same way I suspect Potter may be? But that is irrelevant. I was never in nearly as much unspeakable danger as the boy. I doubt I would have been able to look past the horrors and still think this school my home. Perhaps that is owing to my Slytherin nature which you so despise. I care a great deal about my personal survival in a way Harry does not. I certainly would no longer have viewed this castle as home after witnessing a friend's death. Likely Harry’s home situation is one of the worst this school has ever seen, and nothing has been done. You are the boy’s magical guardian. You should have fixed this.” 

“I could not trust myself!” Dumbledore finally shouted. Severus looked at the headmaster in shock. “I could not trust myself,” Dumbledore repeated quietly. “I should have never thought Remus was the spy, I should have looked at all the marauder's fore-arms and removed any glamours I saw. I could have caught Peter before October 31st, and Harry would still have his parents. But I didn’t. I let the people counting on me down and I caused their deaths. I felt like a fool for believing in Sirius Black and then I felt myself the fool thrice over when I should have fought for him and had faith in him all along. I do not trust myself to keep people safe, Severus. So I thought I would give young Harry to his only remaining family. Who had a better claim than they?”

_That’s not an excuse._ It was those words Severus wanted to say so he said them. “That’s not an excuse. You had the choice to remove him but you forced him to remain in a house where he was unloved. If you do not think yourself capable of protecting children you have no business being a headmaster, and --” 

Dumbledore stood up and silenced Severus. “Get out. I am still Headmaster despite whatever Fudge is planning, and if he smells weakness he will come for these children and replace me with Umbridge. However you may feel about me at the moment, you cannot wish for them to be subject to _her_ jurisdiction. I may not trust myself, but I trust her a great deal less. I will explain to you later when you are less upset. Go now, my boy. I daresay Harry will need you.” 

Severus countered the spell easily and turned his head away from the headmaster disgusted. “You have always been so hard on the house of snakes. Tell me, Albus, is it because you are afraid of what you know you are?” 

The glass bowl full of lemon drops exploded. Severus could not tell if it was because of his own anger, or the fear that had found its way into Albus Dumbledore's twinkling eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all my readers! I hope you are enjoying the story so far. Your comments are my absolute favorite thing in the world, except possibly sour patch kids


	5. Wands Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody likes Umbridge. They never have, and they never will. Also, Harry sometimes hates people who aren't dark lords.

“Wands away.” Umbridge chirped, settling her fuschia clad self in a comfortable chair and watching over the class with barely disguised loathing. Umbridge was staring at Harry very seriously, clearly expecting him to blow up as he had done previously in her class. 

_Not today toad woman, not today._ Harry pulled out his textbook obediently and began to write a lesson plan for the DA in a notebook he had nestled inside the book’s cover. It was clever charmwork, to anyone other than himself the notes he took would appear to cover the day’s material. 

Harry sighed inwardly. He felt like it was nothing short of a miracle that he still enjoyed DADA given his horrific teachers. He knew that Quirrel ought to have been the worst professor he’d had; the man had been possessed by Lord Voldyshorts himself and had attempted to kill an eleven-year-old boy. In the face of his replacements, however, Quirrell was forgettable and moderately competent. _Voldemort would be mortified to learn that he was my second best defense professor and the one I forget about the most. He probably thinks he’s never been forgettable in his life._ Harry found himself wishing for the stuttering, garlic smelling man over the saccharine disgusting mess that comprised one Dolores Umbridge. In fact, Harry decided that Umbridge was the worst defense professor he had ever had, which was remarkable because currently all of his defense professors had made some attempt on his sanity or life. 

_Right, Lockhart would have wiped my mind clean, Lupin was amazing but he would have ripped me to shreds unwittingly, and Crouch was literally a death eater. Umbridge and her blood quill shouldn’t make me feel so upset. She’s not really a threat to my life._

But Harry was upset. Umbridge disturbed him in ways Harry could not explain to anyone really. _She reminds me of a mixture of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia wearing Mrs. Figg’s clothes._ Perhaps that was where the hatred stemmed from. 

Harry shook his head and returned to planning his lesson. He was going to teach the DA the “Somnus” spell, which would cause the person struck to fall into a restful sleep. It was useful to cast on a friend if they were magically exhausted and one did not have access to dreamless sleep or the resources to brew the potion. It would render an attacker unconscious and was more enduring and disorienting than a “Stupefy.” It wasn’t an obscure spell per se, but it was not well known. It had two variants. The first was incredibly useful, the “Somnus Protectorae,” which would cause an attacker’s shield to go to “sleep,” and become dormant and useless. It could affect most shields, including a “Protego.” Harry was still trying to learn how to counteract the hex in the event someone cast it on one of his own shields. 

The other variant was the “Somnus Maximae." Details about this variation had been hidden and were only found in old family libraries. Harry had found a book from the Black family library detailing the effects of this variation of the spell. The Somnus Maximae spell was considered to be more potent than Draught of the Living Death. It placed someone in deep sleep permanently unless the spell was canceled. The only way to end the spell was through a series of complicated runes that used the blood of the spell caster. The spell was not illegal only because it was viewed as impossible to complete and a kind of magical fool’s gold. The “Somnus Maximae” required the spell-caster to use enough magical energy to completely overpower the person on whom the spell was cast permanently. This meant that the spell caster needed to part with an enormous sum of magic _forever._ Most people who had attempted the spell did not have the necessary amount of magic and had died. As far as Harry could tell, the only recorded attempt to have worked was on an English princess named Aurora. Evidently, the story had gone on to become the muggle fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty. Harry would not explicitly tell anyone about the spell, but he would answer questions if they came up. Hopefully, anyone in the DA would know better than to attempt it.

“Ahem, hem.” Harry looked up to find Umbridge peering over his shoulder and looking at what appeared to be impeccable notes on the dangers of Erodian dragon venom. 

“May I help you, Professor?” Harry asked politely. Umbridge looked at him and then at his hand with a sort of grim satisfaction. 

“I just wanted to check-in. Are you enjoying the reading?” 

Harry smiled in the fakest way he could. “Of course, Professor. I find theory ever so useful in protecting myself against the dangers of the world.” 

Umbridge narrowed her eyes. “And what do you think you need protection from, Mr. Potter? Surely you should know by now not to lie about any “dark lords” for the sake of attention?” She said. 

Harry swore someone from the Slytherin side of the room muttered, “he doesn’t need to do anything to get attention, it follows him around like a sick puppy, that bastard.” 

Harry laughed and turned it into a fake cough. He turned his eyes up to Umbridge and clenched his fists to avoid a shudder. “Oh, I just wanted to be protected from Erodian dragon venom. My best friend’s brother works with dragons, and I thought it could be fun to go and visit. You can’t expect me to try and prepare for dark lords with _this class_ , could you?” Ron puffed up slightly, recognizing that he was the best friend with a dragon taming brother.

Umbridge snatched out Harry’s notes and looked at them. “Mr. Potter, I think someone like _you_ should have no place near dragons.” Harry looked at her blankly. 

Neville Longbottom snorted. “Something funny, Mr. Longbottom?” Umbridge asked sweetly. 

“Oh, just, you must not have watched the Triwizard tournament. Harry here outflew a dragon.” Neville said. 

“Ah yes, the tournament. The misguided event from which Mr. Potter’s ridiculous lies begin.” Umbridge turned back to Harry. 

Harry held back a snarl and desired very strongly to throw Umbridge bodily from the school and feed her to the thestrals. _Cedric died. Who else could have killed him? You know NOTHING._ Harry took a deep breath and concentrated on the image of his stag. He thought perhaps he heard a gentle hum and felt a slight warmth settle around his shoulders.

“Professor, would I be able to go back to taking notes on the reading for this class? As I said, the material is fascinating and I find notes the best way to help the information _sink in.”_ Harry widened his eyes until he looked a mockery of innocence. Umbridge handed back the notebook with no small amount of suspicion and leered down at his hand. _I’m bad at lying anyway._ Umbridge reluctantly left Harry to his lesson plans and went around the room and invaded everyone’s personal space.

_Am I a bad person because I hate Voldemort nearly as much for cursing this goddamn teaching position as I hate him for murdering my parents?_

Harry took one look at Hermione’s enraged face as she sat with her book closed and her hand high in the air and allowed his shoulders to relax. _Ah, I guess even if I am, I am not alone in hating Voldemort so greatly for so petty a reason._

…

Severus had spent his morning poring over letters Dumbledore had kept from his correspondence with Arabella Figg. Dumbledore liked to believe that Severus was a dangerous man on a tight leash, so ridden with vows and guilt and hatred that Severus was capable of thinking only when it suited the headmaster. Dumbledore forgot that although he had expertly crafted his chessboard and manufactured his pieces, Severus was still capable of independent thought. _And I will become a player, old man. You may look at me as a valuable tool and as evidence of your compassion, but I am bitter and angry. I did not cast off one master to yoke myself to another._

Severus was the youngest potions master in Hogwarts history, and he had been so proficient at curse casting and spell crafting that he had joined the Dark Lord’s inner circle decades younger than other members. While in their meeting Albus had been struggling with his emotions and justifications, Severus had hidden behind his Occlumency barriers and carefully cast a geminio charm on the letters Albus held from Figg. He had turned his face away and concealed the duplicated parchment, leaving the office with the headmaster’s private correspondence. _I wonder, will you read them again now? Will you see the signs of your failure to the boy?_

Severus's lips curled in disgust as he looked back down at the letters. 

He looked at Figg’s fears for Harry’s food. _“I’m worried about Harry, Albus. He doesn’t look like he’s getting enough to eat at home.”_

The response, foolish and uninterested. _“Ah, yes. Young Harry is at that age where they will be picky.”_

Figg had responded with a bit of anger. _“He’s skin and bones, that boy. I swear I saw him looking through the bin the other day for a bite to eat. That is not what normal five-year-old children do, Albus. Something is wrong.”_

Dumbledore had not responded to that letter, it would appear. He looked at another concern from Mrs. Figg. 

_“I always thought that he might have bruises, but today his cheek was black and blue. I think they are beating him in that home, Albus. You must remove him.”_

Severus had never noticed how quickly one could be moved to hatred until he saw the response. _“How wonderful it is for Harry to have friends to rough house with. Family and friends like that are precious, just like young Harry.”_

Severus bit the inside of his cheek. _Precious indeed. Like prized cattle, you treat him._

Again, Mrs. Figg had not given up. _“The other day, I asked him to come help me in the kitchen because the Dursleys were out and I saw his shirt ride up. Tell me, Albus, what roughhousing results in lash marks?”_

Severus felt his pulse quicken. _Lash marks? No … Surely she was mistaken. Gods._

Dumbledore had sent back a nonsense letter, but Severus could feel something of a charm echoing softly from the duplicate he held. It was light, but it was a mood-modifier. Mrs. Figg wouldn’t forget anything she had seen, but the charm would make her feel unconcerned about her observations and she would let go of the need to do anything. Severus felt the same charm cast over much of the correspondence. Mrs. Figg had been charmed to feel at ease with the situation and let go of any anger or righteous indignation she felt. _No wonder she stopped writing letters. No wonder she was told to give up. No wonder she got more and more upset the more she talked to me. The reasons she was upset must have come back to her, bit by bit, so instead of just knowing the facts, she regained her emotional response._

_“Give him hell for me, indeed.”_

…

Harry smiled on his way to meet with Professor Snape. It was Thursday, and by now the whole school had benefited from Snape’s ‘practical demonstrations.’ The first years had no idea how bad Snape was _supposed_ to be, and had all decided he’d had a hard time with Umbridge but had moved past it to become a wonderful professor. 

Harry had nearly spat out his tea when one first-year Gryffindor, Marlena Mason or something, had said dreamily, “Oh I can just see why he became a potions master so young. He’s so quick with his fingers sometimes and that way he cuts through quartz like it’s butter is mmm. Do you think he’d want an apprentice?” Harry had started choking but had quickly regained his self-control. Then he had leaned over so that he could make eye contact with the girl, who had begun blushing immediately, and before any of the other firsties could answer, he had begun a new Hogwarts rumor. 

“I can answer that, I think.” Harry had said. All the eyes of the first years fixed upon him, and some of the second years who still believed they could earn Snape’s favor despite being Gryffindors. “Snape has been so lonely for such a long time, that he favors quiet. The closer you can keep to absolutely silent, and the more you show that you can listen to him, the more Snape will care for you. I’ve heard from a reputable source that he also responds well to the reddest wine you can find.” 

Harry had leaned back and forced his expression to turn mysterious, and perhaps a third of the girls had begun feverishly asking what would make them gain _Harry Potter’s affections because who wants Snape anyway, he looks like a bat._ But enough students were nodding like Harry had spoken the truth of gods. And so Harry looked at all of them with his green eyes smoldering and his gaze slightly unfocused and he said, “I heard it all from Dolos.” 

And thus, by the evening, the rumor had spread to all edges of the castle. It was said that Snape was looking for a quiet, peaceful, partner, one who was wealthy and could provide him with the best of the wine, one who would heal his soul from his past lover Dolos. When Hermione had heard the rumor she had laughed aloud and leaned over to Harry and whispered, “Dolos is the Greek god of lies.” 

Harry had smiled at her like he was a goblin and said, “Oh, believe me, I know.” 

Harry was in high spirits indeed when he entered Snape’s office. He paused for a moment when his foot crossed the threshold. The stone walls of the office had been adorned with silks of green, gold, and silver. The desk had been pushed to one edge of the room. In the center were two pillowed green armchairs with golden trim, facing one another and separated by a glass coffee table. Snape was sitting with straight-backed posture in one chair and he held a glass of a dark liquid in his hand. _Is that red wine?_

Harry took a moment and found his voice. “You’ve redecorated, Professor.” 

Snape raised a brow. “An astute observation. Sit, Mr. Potter.” Harry walked over to the offered armchair and sank down slowly. The chair was soft and comfortable.

Snape smirked and sipped his drink. “A gift, from a secret admirer,” Snape said. “Wonderful red wine and it came with a promise of wondrous quiet.” 

Harry did not know what to say, so he decided to say nothing. Snape gave him a glance and then continued to speak. “I have also received offers, from all ages of students, to avenge my honor against my former lover Dolos. He was, apparently, a dark and powerful wizard, with lots of money but no eye for my talents. Or she was Ariane Dolos, an enchantress who meant to steal my blood and immortalize herself as the first vampire to wield a wand.” 

Harry blanched. “Well, Professor,” Harry said working hard to keep his voice steady, “that’s quite the story. It does look like good wine.” 

Snape took a small sip. “Dark enough that it looks like blood, doesn’t it? A bi-product, of course, from my time with Ariane. Never let it be said that I did not know what she was attempting.” 

Harry was so out of place he felt he was falling. “Ah, you never did mention her, Professor.”

Snape took another sip. “Indeed, I was quite embarrassed. For a potions master to willingly expose the properties of his own blood ...” Snape tsked. “At least the students know now that I prefer the quiet.” 

Harry bounced his knee slightly. “And that’s a good thing, Professor?” 

Snape placed his wine glass on the table. “Delightful. A few students answered my questions today in a whisper so as to avoid disrupting my peace. You see, after I split with Dolos, I wanted solitude and they all understand how I value tranquility.” 

Harry could not help himself. He began to laugh. Snape’s eyes narrowed at Harry’s laughing form, and then Snape himself let out a quiet chuckle.

“I would have been angry with you, of course,” Snape said, shocking Harry out of his laughter, “if you had not accurately assessed my desire for quiet, told all of my students I wanted them to listen and named my former lover after the God of lies. All of my smarter students know the whole rumor is ridiculous based on that component, and I have effectively separated my students based on their intellect.” 

Harry began to speak but Snape held up a hand. “I have become mysterious, now, Mr. Potter. And, I shudder to say this, _romantic._ ” 

“Ah, well then, I’m sorry?” 

Snape leaned back in his chair. “I am not fond of pranks. They bring up bad memories for me. This is perhaps the most flattering one that has been inflicted upon me, but it is the only one you will ever perform. If I hear you start one more false rumor about me, or conspire with the Weasley twins to do one action that will disturb my most sought-after peace, I will destroy you, Harry Potter.” 

Harry looked at Snape with wide eyes. _He sounds like Hermione._ “I understand, sir. I meant no harm, I was just trying to save you from hordes of little girls trying to be your apprentice.” 

Snape ran a finger around the edge of his wine glass. “Yes, adding in the practical component to my teaching has resulted in an unhealthy amount of adoration. I will endeavor to be very frightening in the future. Perhaps Dolos will send me dark magical items.” Snape chuckled again. 

Harry shrugged. “I suppose you would be very angry if Dolos got a new lover.” 

Snape looked at Harry appraisingly. “You would have done well in Slytherin.” 

Harry shrugged. “The hat certainly thought so.” 

Snape paused for a moment, considering this new piece of information. “I will ask you about that later. For now, I would like for you to try casting a Patronus in your mind _and_ staying awake at the same time.” 

Harry tried. He tried again. Three times he fell asleep as he summoned Prongs. On the fourth attempt, he cast a Patronus and kept his eyes open as he felt it in his mind. Snape had already said, “Legilimens,” and Harry could _feel Snape_ and thought the sensation was unpleasant. He could feel his professor trying to go somewhere, but Harry would think, “no, not there,” “stay where you are.” The feeling became almost painful, like there was fire beneath his eye-sockets, and Harry wanted the sensation gone. Almost immediately he felt the presence vanish and Snape’s body jerked with sensation. 

“You’re glowing,” Snape said. 

“What?” Harry asked. 

“You’re glowing.” 

Harry looked down at his hands and saw a faint silver light. _Prongs, I’m safe now._ The room suddenly felt very quiet. He had not realized he’d been hearing the song until he could hear it no longer. Snape was staring at him again. 

“It is uncommon magic, Potter.” 

Harry looked at Snape. “All the better to defeat Voldemort with.” 

Snape hissed but looked proud in spite of himself. “Don’t call him that, idiot boy. Not around someone who’s marked.” 

Harry looked down at his feet. “Sorry Professor.” Then Harry looked up and made unconcerned eye contact with Snape. “But I won’t call him the Dark Lord either. Riddle, maybe, because of that diary I found second year.” 

Snape crossed one leg over the other. “Ah yes, when you were twelve years old and slew a basilisk.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes, then. You make it sound so unbelievable and impossible. It wasn’t a big deal. I distinctly remember a sword and a phoenix. It was hardly as if I worked alone.” 

Snape laughed and it sounded bitter as burnt coffee. “Your family must be some demons from hell for nightmares to appear to you like meaningless dreams.” Snape stared at Harry then, and his body language displayed an invitation. _He wants me to talk about the Dursleys._

Harry stood up, feeling like all the joy had left him. “I will tell you Professor, one day, I think. But I can’t yet. I can’t.” 

Snape stood too. “I know, Potter. For what it’s worth, my father was not a good man.” 

Harry bit his lip. “Did he hurt you, Professor?”

  
  
Snape fell silent for a long moment, long enough that Harry felt distinctly uncomfortable. “Yes.” Snape finally answered. 

Harry was unsure of what to do, so he said the words he’d always wanted to hear. “It wasn’t your fault, Professor. Something must have been wrong with him for him to --”

Snape placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I know, Harry.” Snape’s voice was impossibly gentle. “It wasn’t your fault either. You were not and are not unlovable.” Harry shuddered. 

“Sometimes, I think I hate Uncle Vernon more than Vold--, more than Riddle. Because at least with Riddle, I get to fight back, you know?” 

  
Snape nodded once. “I understand, Harry. I know.” 

Harry gave a half-smile, shrugged off Snape’s hand, and left the office quietly. Snape collapsed back into one of the chairs. 

_A child told me it wasn’t my fault. Lily, he’s just like you._

...

Snape was seated at his desk again, and he was looking down at a chessboard. Snape replayed his conversation with the headmaster and got stuck on one moment in particular. 

“ _Have you given him a happy childhood?”_

_“He has been happy,”_

_He did not say, “he is happy.” He did not say, “I am trying.” He said, “he has been happy,” as though the happiness is ending and this childhood was the best Harry could have hoped for. As if the end of Harry Potter is already in sight, and not as if he is speaking about a fifteen-year-old_ **_boy._ **

_“He has been happy?” Such rubbish words._

“He will be happy.” Severus did not to whom he was making the promise, as he reclined heavily in a chair with golden trim and sipped expensive red wine from someone he had never met. “He _will_ _be_ happy.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how quickly I will keep writing this story, but I am overwhelmed by the response. This is my first ever fanfic and publishing of my work, and I swear I get so nervous every time I publish a chapter. I can't believe how positive everyone has been, and that I already have 1000 hits. Thank you, everyone!
> 
> Stay tuned for Draco to become a real character next chapter. I see blonde hair in the future.


	6. Pressing Toads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes teenagers like to use profanity, be warned

Draco Malfoy had been moody all week. If you asked Blaise Zabini, who was the most observant and intelligent Slytherin (other than Draco, of course,) it probably had something to do with Potter. Blaise would probably say something along the lines of, “Draco’s in a state? It’s because of Potter. It’s always fucking Potter. Sometimes it’s his father too, I suppose.” Then Blaise would have likely flipped everyone off and gone back to reading his book, or kissing the nearest person, or silently modifying his plans for taking over the world with subtle grace. Blaise was like that. 

Theodore Nott also thought Draco’s behavior had to do with Potter. As one of Draco’s  _ friends,  _ mostly because their fathers were both members of the same Death Cult™, Theo had known Draco intimately before Hogwarts. Theo would almost certainly say something along the lines of, “Draco’s always been obsessed with Potter, probably since before Potter knew about the wizarding world. I bet you ten galleons that Draco grew up with the  _ Playful Potter  _ books, and believed that Potter was spending his days crafting spells and his nights taming dragons. Honestly, if Potter weren’t such a fucking Gryffindor, Draco would have snapped him up back on the train first year.” 

Pansy Parkinson would never take Theo up on that particular bet because she had grown up with both Theo (The Notts and Parkinsons are buds) and Draco, so she knew for a fact that Draco  _ had _ been read the  _ Playful Potter _ books and  _ had _ begged on his seventh birthday to go to Alaska to meet Potter for his alleged Yule celebration. Pansy  _ knew  _ that Draco was somehow thinking about Potter. “God he was obsessed with Harry Potter until he was seven, and then he asked to go to Alaska because the book said that was where Potter was spending the winter. I guess Lucius hadn’t known Narcissa was reading Draco the series and got all mad about it. Said it was immature and unseemly for the heir of House Malfoy to be reading childish drivel. Then Draco said he wanted to be in a  _ political alliance  _ with Potter, and fucking Harry Potter couldn’t even be bothered to shake Draco’s  _ hand  _ on the Hogwarts express. Potter’s lucky the Malfoys didn’t start a blood feud over the offense, but now Draco hates Potter with good reason. Some savior, Potter is. Can’t even brew a potion. And he’s friends with the worst mudblood --” Sometimes you just have to tune Pansy out. Draco does all the time. 

Daphne Greengrass does  _ not know  _ why Draco is in a bad mood,  _ she does not pay attention,  _ and she has  _ no opinion,  _ and she will serenely smile and deflect all your questions saying something along the lines of, “Draco’s upset? That must be hard for you. How are you feeling about all this?” And you might answer her, and she will sit and listen to you, very understanding Daphne Greengrass is, and when you leave her eyes will twinkle disturbingly like Dumbledore's. And if someone were to ask her what’s going on with  _ you,  _ she does  _ not know.  _ She has many guesses, however, and she likes to keep them to herself, thank you very little. 

Milicent Bulstrode will brain you if you ask her about Draco Malfoy. Greg and Vincent (Crabbe and Goyle) will say it’s “Draco’s business.” Then they will try to do their homework, and then they will fail. It’s hard to be Vincent and Greg.

Tracey Davis just wants to be a healer, and everyone's a little unsure why she’s in Slytherin. 

…

Draco Malfoy grit his teeth as he saw the bandaged hand of a Ravenclaw first year clutched to her chest on her way to class from the great hall. It was the third carved hand he’d seen this week, and after looking at Potter’s scarred “I must not tell lies,” Draco was sensing a significant pattern. 

Potter may not have had  _ parents  _ who cared about him, but he sure as hell had the whole wizarding world.  _ Figures that Potter has no idea how to use his fame. Too busy saving everyone by running into battle, can’t even fathom using his personal power to accomplish the same thing in a more subtle and safe way.  _ Draco slipped into the History of Magic classroom and settled into a chair near Blaise. 

Draco did not  _ want  _ to help his least favorite Gryffindor, but Umbridge was rubbing him the wrong way. Sure, the toad woman worked for the ministry and had promised Draco an unbelievable amount of power for a fifth-year prefect as a member of her inquisitorial squad, but torturing small children was a line not even Draco would want to cross. 

Was Draco self-serving? Yes, absolutely. Only idiots would fail to use their resources in order to achieve results. Was Draco sadistic? No. And that was the crux of the issue. For his own self-preservation, Draco appeared totally happy with Umbridge’s regime. His father was a ministry influencer, and Draco could not be seen acting out of turn with the Senior Under Secretary to the Minister. It would be detrimental to the Malfoy family political enterprise. Draco would just need to use someone else to remove her. There was only one person with the personal connections to make it happen. 

Draco sighed audibly and Blaise arched a brow. Draco shook his head, but Blaise mouthed “Potter?” so Draco sent a small spark at the Italian boy in retaliation. Blaise just smirked and whispered to Theo, “Definitely Potter, then.” 

Professor Binns clearly did not pay attention to the interaction in the slightest, but then again, it was rather uncertain that Professor Binns had ever paid attention to anyone in the history of his teaching career, or possibly even during his life. Draco had successfully set a desk on fire in his second year to remind everyone that he was still important during the whole “Chamber of Secrets” mess, and Binns had not noticed at all. The fire was put out by Bulstrode, who had simply reacted by casting a quick “augmenti” which made everyone wonder why she already knew the fourth year spell. Bulstrode had looked quite frightening, and no one had ever bothered to ask. Binns  _ had _ noticed the resulting steam from the two spells. Binns had blinked once and paused for half a second, and then continued on in his lecture. 

Draco was pretty sure he could moon the ghost and nothing would happen. Draco had already written to his father requesting a different professor, but his father had smiled grimly and said, “If I lived with Binns, you will live with Binns, and all Malfoy children will live with Binns until the professor goes to the next world or the Malfoy line dies out.” The subtext was clear, Draco needed to suffer as his father had suffered, and the Malfoy line must live on unto eternity. 

After the class had ended, Draco left quickly and found Potter chatting with Granger in the library. Draco sauntered over to the table and waited silently. 

“Go away, Malfoy.” Hermione said. Ignoring her, just like he had in Potions class earlier, Draco turned to Potter. 

“Is golden boy so shiny he can only see himself?” Draco asked with a sneer. 

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry said with a tired tone of voice. 

Draco leaned forward, placing one hand on the back of Harry’s chair. “Your hand, you idiot. You think you’re the only one ‘writing lines?’”

Harry’s face drained of color. His eyes set like stone. “So what, Malfoy? Here to gloat because none of you Slytherins have had detention?” 

Draco glared down at Potter. “I can give you detention, Potter.”

Harry shook his head and looked away. “Whatever, Malfoy. Do your worst.” Harry looked disgusted by Draco, and a Malfoy was never disgusting. Draco ran a finger through his perfectly styled hair. 

“I know _you_ think the whole wizarding world thinks you’re a liar. Look at your hand and prove them wrong. Go get enough evidence of other people’s detentions, and fucking go the press. Show to them _you’re_ _not_ a liar.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes but Draco could see the gears turning in his head. Then, all of a sudden, the light went out of his eyes. “Yeah, like that would work. So trusting, the wizarding populace is. So loving too.” 

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t know Harry, it might work. It’s not like McGonnical is helping really.” 

Draco straightened up. He tried to mask his surprise at hearing Hermione Granger  _ criticize  _ a teacher. “The mudblood," Draco paused absorbing Hermione's absolutely deadly expression, "excuse me, muggleborn has it right. Get your head out of the gutter and bloody do something already. It’s making me sick watching you flounder around like a drowning baby.” 

“Gee, thanks Draco. I’ll try to help you feel better by running around like a chicken with its head cut off instead. It’s my natural look.” 

Draco smirked. “That explains why you always seem to be losing your mind.” 

Harry shrugged. “Can’t lose something you’ve already lost.” 

Draco cocked his head. “Oh, but  _ you  _ can.” And then Draco walked away, hoping Potter wasn’t a complete idiot. Granger would help him figure out what to do, uncouth though she may have been. Hogwarts had turned into a power struggle between Dumbledore, the Ministry, and Voldemort. The students were getting caught in the cross-fire. 

_ Use your status as the chosen one Potter, and turn this battleground back into a school.  _ If all went according to plan, Draco wouldn’t have to lift another finger. 

Blaise and Greengrass were sitting in the library when Draco went to talk to Harry Potter. Though the two Slytherins were on opposite sides of the library, they both grinned like sharks. Daphne Greengrass hummed. She could smell blood in the water. 

…

Harry went to the broom shed on the next rest day and flew around on his firebolt as obnoxiously as possible. Soon enough, a crowd had gathered and people were watching him as he dove and corkscrewed and hurtled toward the ground impossibly fast only to pull back seconds before crashing. People gasped, fainted, and cheered. And then, Harry felt a camera flash. Harry smiled and swooped down onto the pitch, stowing his broom quickly and effectively. 

He scanned the crowd and found who he was looking for. “Colin!” Harry shouted with an easy smile. The young boy looked around as if searching for another Colin, and then broke out into a beam when he realized Harry was talking to  _ this  _ Colin. 

“Hi Harry!” Colin said with a blush. Harry walked toward the younger Gryffindor. 

“Colin,” Harry said, looking deep into the boy’s eyes. “I have a favor to ask of you. Think you can take a couple of pictures for me?” 

Colin looked up into the emerald eyes of his personal hero and found the words to speak through sheer force of will. “Yes, yes, of course, anything, yes, I am, I’d be, I am honored, honored to help.” 

Harry laughed and ruffled his hair. “Thanks, Collin. You’re going to help a lot of people.” 

Three days later, seven pictures had been taken, and one letter to The Daily Prophet and one letter to the Quibbler had been sent in the mail, and Collin and Harry bumped fists and went back to their normal lives. Hogwarts was about to have very private information published in a very public way. 

… 

One day had passed since Harry and Colin had sent their letters out to the magazines, and as the sea of owls flooded the great hall during breakfast, Harry could feel his heartbeat drumming frantically in his chest.  _ The Quibbler _ article would come next week. Harry looked at  _ The Daily Prophet _ and unbound the ribbon with trepidation. 

He locked eyes with Hermione. “Moment of truth,” Harry said. He unrolled the paper. 

**Harry Potter, Tortured with Dark Artifact By Ministry Official**

Rita Skeeter

That’s right folks, Harry Potter was forced to use a BLOOD QUILL in his detentions with Ministry Official Dolores Umbridge. This year, the Ministry has enacted changes within Hogwarts to provide structure amongst the everchanging roster of Defense Against the Dark Arts professors. 

But what seemed benign changes at first have proved to be an overexertion of power by one Dolores Umbridge. Umbridge has abused her position as a ministry official and acted out of her own sadistic impulses instead of the guidelines laid out for her by Minister Fudge. 

After seeing the photos of seven students' scars from the blood quill, (see last page for photos, Potter’s hand is the scar saying “I must not tell lies") Fudge shook in silent fury. Barely containing his simmering rage at the notion of innocent children being forced to bear such torture, Fudge choked out, “Dolores has done this against the wishes of the ministry, and she has no further place in any school.”

One must wonder why Headmaster Dumbledore has allowed his students to be tortured for so long, and why Colin Creevey, a fourth-year student, felt the need to reach out to me in order to protect the students at his school. Creevey told me in his letter, “I have a camera and I’m a Gryffindor, so I thought it was time to be brave.” 

And what a humbling message that fourteen-year-old boy has for us adults. Our children are in danger now, because of Umbridge. It is time for us to be brave!

…

“Well, shit,” Ron said. “I mean, that’s good about Umbridge and all, but it makes Dumbledore look kinda bad.” 

Harry looked up at the head table, where Dumbledore did indeed look a little upset, but Umbridge was missing. 

Neville looked up at the high table too and grimaced. “Don’t hate me, but I kinda agree with Skeeter this time.” 

Ron dropped his sausage. “What?” 

Neville clasped his hands together. “I mean, Professor Dumbledore could have done something about her but he didn’t because he was worried it would hurt him politically, right?”

Hermione frowned. “I’m not sure that’s what he was doing. He was probably waiting for a better time --”

“But students were getting tortured while he waited. I certainly was, and I went to my head of house who told me to keep my chin up and avoid conflict,” Harry interrupted. “I mean, if just a few pictures changed public perception, surely Dumbledore or McGonagall could have done something sooner.” 

The Weasley twins ran into the hall, their red hair wild and standing up like Harry’s. 

  
“The High Inquisitor is no more!” They said, standing up on the table.

Snape stood and said, "Get down from there, ten points from Gryffindor,” just as the rest of the school asked, “what? She’s gone?” in very loud tones.

“Three Aurors came to the school this fine morning,” George said.

“They told Umbridge that she had been very naughty.” Fred continued. 

“They told her that using dark artifacts on children was illegal,”

“And considered torture,”

“And now she had to go into custody.” 

Fred and George shared a small smile.

“She said she had not used a dark artifact on children.”

“But what do you know, Peeves brought the Auror Ms. Umbridge’s quills.”

“The Aurors took a resisting Umbridge away.”

“Remember that Peeves is a hero.” 

The twins gave a sweeping bow and hopped off the table to catch the end of breakfast. The entire hall broke into furious whispers. 

Dumbledore stood up. “Thank you, Mr. and Mr. Weasley, for that delightful story. It warms my heart to think of Peeves as a hero. Poltergeists are so lonely. Ah, if only Peeves could have another ‘geist to befriend, but alas, I don’t think Hogwarts would survive. Speaking of survival, Professor Umbridge will be taking a leave of absence, it appears.” He said with bright eyes. “Professor Snape will be filling in for Defense until we can find a suitable replacement. In the meantime, I hope you will all enjoy the banana custard. The house-elves have quite outdone themselves this morning. I myself am not fond of bananas, but I will always indulge in a good spot of custard.” Dumbledore sat down, and indeed crystal chalices filled with banana pudding materialized. 

Ron started eating without abandon. “I guess,” he said with his mouth partially full of custard, “Dumbledore isn’t too torn up about the whole thing.” 

Hermione looked at him with an expression of intense judgment. “I can’t believe Umbridge was out in a day because of the media article.” 

Harry put down his spoon. “Yeah, Fudge abandoned her pretty fast to avoid getting his name smeared.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “He’ll go to great lengths to avoid getting caught in his own web, won’t he?” 

Harry knew that this observation would be important later, so he nodded once in agreement and caught the eyes of Draco Malfoy from across the hall. Malfoy’s lips twitched in a mockery of a smile, and Harry had the audacity to wink. 

Harry's line of sight was broken when Colin Creevey was lifted high on his chair by the Weasley twins and carried around the room on people's shoulders as the whole hall declared him a hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my readers! I have been loving all the comments and I cannot believe how many people have seen my work.


	7. Eye-to-Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy armchairs re-assign roles in the storybook

The rumor about Snape having a secret, evil, ex-lover named Dolos ended as abruptly as it began. Once Snape began teaching Defense in addition to potions, some students became desperate to learn everything they could about Dolos in order to either ingratiate themselves to the dour professor or exploit his weaknesses. Instead, a handful of unremarkable students found themselves learning about ancient Greece and its deities, feeling quite embarrassed that they had been duped by such an absurd rumor. _“Snape, having sex with a vampire enchantress, what were we thinking?” “I mean, I still kinda see it, but whatever.”_

People could not remember exactly who was the source of the lies, but most people agreed it was the Weasley twins. The twins, for their part, refused to “either confirm or deny” the query, and Snape was certainly happy enough to act angry at the brothers because he always enjoyed feeling malevolent toward Gryffindors, especially pranking menaces. 

Some first-years swore that it was Harry Potter who had begun the rumor, and were liable to say things like, “I swear it was Harry, he was the one who said he heard it all from Dolos,” only to get admonished by upper-year students who would quite firmly declare, “Harry is not a liar, and how dare you call him by his first name! Harry deserves your respect.” Then the first-years would complain and ask why the upper years got to call “Mr. Potter” by his first name, and the upper-years would say it was because they had _earned_ that right. 

The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs seemed to decide that Harry was probably not lying about the return of Voldemort after the Quibbler article came out, and they all felt (based on the picture of his scarred hand in the Prophet and his experiences with the evilest wizard in living memory) that he was a beautiful, angsty, _tortured_ soul in need of much ogling and an overabundance of affection. 

Harry had never used his invisibility cloak so much in his life. 

\------

Albus Dumbledore had an odd sort of feeling in his chest that seemed to imitate regret remarkably well. So remarkable, in fact, was this imitation, that Albus abruptly realized that he was in fact regretting his actions. He felt regret and a great deal of shame. It was most unwelcome and reminded him in an uncomfortable manner of a girl with ginger hair blowing dandelion petals to the breeze. 

Sitting in his office and stroking Fawkes absently, Dumbledore was reading over his correspondence to Arabella and had a sinking feeling that he had done the Wrong Thing. He had not wanted Harry to grow up spoiled and overconfident, and indeed Harry had not. But he had not meant for Harry to grow up so completely unloved and so entirely devoid of any form of positive contact. 

_I’ve made the same mistake at least three times. Tom, Severus, and now Harry. Who’s next, I wonder, on the great list of people I will fail. Who have I already failed? Perhaps it’s four children, now. Perhaps it began with Ariana. Three dark-haired boys and one shining girl. And there’s Lily, and James, and Remus, and Alice, and Frank, and Gideon and Fabian, and Regulus and … Sirius. Perhaps he’s the worst of all. An entire generation, and I just … failed._

Albus sighed and looked remarkably morose given his normally cheerful disposition. He had, unknowingly, placed simple compulsions on his letters to Arabella, believing quite strongly that there was no problem and feeling rather like Arabella should have done the same. That was unethical to the utmost degree. Albus felt like he owed the woman an apology, and apologize he would. Later.

Albus paused his reading and looked up at his portraits. “Phineas,” he said to the former headmaster, “What do you think I ought to do for young Harry?”

The portrait blinked. “Why, Albus,” Phineas drawled, “Are you asking for advice?” 

Albus smiled softly. “A great man knows when to ask for help. A lesser man knows to ask for help after he has already needed it for some time. I make no claims that I am great.” 

“What a liar, you are. Always with the riddles,” Dippet sighed. 

Albus looked at his predecessor, “A pun, Armando?” Albus laughed slightly and Dippet smiled mysteriously. 

Phineas paced in his frame. “The heir to my house,” he said. 

“Yes?” Albus inquired. 

“He is innocent and yet he does not walk as a free man. It may down two flasks in one gulp if you swallow your failure of justice to one family and see the scale balanced to heal another.” Phineas commented. The former headmaster gave Albus a searching Look, filled with a healthy dose of disappointment and a small spark of hope. 

Albus looked impossibly old and for a moment his eyes rested on Fawkes, trilling softly and resting underneath his hand. When he spoke, his voice was tired and filled with the years of the two wars he had been made to fight. “It’s my familiar, you know, who gave the feathers to both wands. The Dark Lord and his ‘vanquisher’ cut from the same cloth that I fashioned.” Albus placed a hand over his eyes.

Dilys Derwent snorted. “If ya could get off yer arse fer a momen’ and stop callin everyone yer boy, maybe ya could see beyond that big head of yers. This isn’t about ya, ya old fool.”

Dexter Fortescue looked supremely unimpressed. “You are a headmaster, not a general. By rights, all the children in these halls are, in some manner, fashioned by you.”

Phineas Black crossed his arms and took up a haughty position. “Sirius once said that the muggles had a saying, learned it from Potter’s girl. He told me that his mother was making a mistake because, ‘history doesn’t repeat itself, fools repeat history.” 

Dilys Derwent raised an accusatory brow. “I think yer up on a gobsmackin high horse if ya think that brother wands from yer phoenix means that yer somehow responsible fer the actions of real living, breathin peoples, but I’ll be the firs to say that if ya did it wrong the firs time by lettin one of em grow up unloved, maybe ya’d better break the mold with the second ‘un.” 

  
Albus seems thoughtful. “Another student I need not yet fail,” he mused. “At lease, not entirely. Very well, Phineas, I shall see what I can do.” 

\------

Severus Snape had not imagined that teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts would be so utterly exhausting, but he had found himself with a large conundrum that he did not like one bit. He had known that Harry Potter was good at defense, excellent even, based on conversations with the fools who had previously occupied the post. He had expected Potter to be above average (Merlin knew that people could sing the boy’s praises for practically nothing at all) but he had not expected Potter to be as brilliant as he happened to be. Indeed, Severus Snape at times felt upset with the boy because Harry seemed incapable of taking longer than a few moments to cast any new spell flawlessly, grasp the theory behind it on an instinctual level, and then set out into the classroom to help stragglers with their own application of the material. 

As though to prove this absurd point, Snape had spent one class trying to help a stupid Hufflepuff get untangled from the web he had cast instead of canceling his shield charm only to be distracted by Harry talking to Susan Bones in a soft voice, lecturing the intricacies of the _protego_ shield. Harry touched on how to cast more than one shield in a layered formation so that if one fell there were more remaining. Harry had then moved on how to chain the shields together, such that the sum was greater than its parts, at which point Severus Snape had noticed a substantial portion of the class listening to Harry with rapt attention. Harry demonstrated the spell chain for his protego, and Granger and Weasley and Longbottom (of all people, really) had fired spell after spell at Harry and the shields had held. 

Watching silently as the class unfolded, he noticed the same grouping of students forming into loose clumps and working on the shield spell and a few moving onto the more impressive spell chain. Susan Bones mastered the first charm and moved on to layering. It was then that Snape noticed three things that had been staring at him for the better part of the week. 

The first thing Severus Snape noticed was that Harry was not just _good_ at defense. He was a prodigy. He was in such a high caliber with his inborn grasp of the subject that Snape felt for the first time as if perhaps the prophecy had been correct. The power rolled off the boy in waves and the idiot could barely even feel them. Hell, Severus had not known about spell chains until he was in his twenties, and he knew that there were few books on the subject. Severus had not even heard of layering Protegos in such a manner, and he realized he needed to talk to Harry because Harry ought to have written a journal and published his revolutionary understanding of defensive spells immediately. The boy was a marvel. 

The second thing Severus realized was that there was a group of students, in all the houses but Slytherin, that was just _better_ at defense than it had any right to be. Members of the group were overly prepared for class, knew spells long before they should have known them, knew spells that Severus sometimes did not know, and it was disturbing. He had asked Longbottom how the boy would knock out an assailant non-lethally if the attacker was using a typical shield charm, and Longbottom, without blinking or choking on his fear, had answered quite calmly, “With a somnus, Professor.” A _somnus._ Severus only knew about them because he had gone through some medical training and it was the spell used to force someone with magical exhaustion to sleep.

He had never considered it for attack purposes because it was so _light._ But it _would_ work. Severus was astounded and so was two-thirds of the class because they did not know what the somnus spell even was. But one-third of the class had smiled slightly, a few of them had mouthed along with Longbottom even. Someone was teaching a group of students, the best in the defense classes, and doing it well. Severus was upset that the top fifteen places in his defense classes were occupied by non-Slytherin students. He had taken to calling the students who were clearly getting extra-help the ‘elite’ because there was no other way to describe them in his class. Harry was clearly the teacher. Granger was clearly the organizer. Weasley, as usual, was useless. And Severus Snape had no idea what he wanted to do about the little club that seemed to make so many students so much better than he, their Professor, had ever thought them capable. 

The third thing Severus Snape realized followed the first. Harry Potter was not arrogant, at all, in the slightest. He had no clue how amazing he was. Only Zabini and Greengrass seemed to notice (and Nott, to a lesser degree). The rest of his students were too blinded by prejudice to act on their better impulses. But those three Slytherins watched Harry in the halls and seemed to be on the lookout for how to join his little group.

….

Harry entered the now familiar office of his most ... most what? professor. _Fu_ _ck, I’m supposed to hate him, but I don’t anymore. I can’t, I just … I want to be here._ Harry entered into Snape’s office, and the man sat in one of the armchairs and motioned for Harry to sit across from him, and Harry had a sudden realization that he trusted Snape of all people more than Dumbeldore. That he wanted to spend time with Snape, and talk to the man, and that he, _fuck,_ that he wanted to make the man proud. 

As Harry sank down into the armchair, his potions professor relaxed as can be, Harry had a quick feeling of discomfort and he focused on it, leading him to a place of startling clarity. 

“Does,” Harry swallowed, “does Professor Dumbledore make you sit across from his desk when he talks to you?” 

Snape eyed Harry thoughtfully. “Hmm. I suppose he does. Why, Harry?” 

Harry closed his eyes and tried to think about why he was asking, how he could form his strange swirl of emotions into words. He had to ask another question first. “Does he call you “my boy” when you talk?”

Snape had that face he used when he was disgusted and trying only in a very limited way not to let it show. “He does.” Snape’s voice was soft, and silky, and tinged with the just the barest hints of absolute revulsion. 

Harry opened his eyes and looked at himself, across a glass coffee table from his professor, the two of them for all the ways that mattered sitting eye to eye. “I guess I want to say thank you then.” 

“Oh indeed? What have I done to earn the illustrious gratitude of Harry Potter, the savior of the light, the golden boy, the boy-who-lived?” Snape’s lips were pulling up into a grimacing sort of sneer, but his eyes were actually asking a question, and Harry knew by now that Snape was letting Harry see more in his expression than he ever really allowed to show.

“I hate all that stuff and you should know that by now.” Snape inclined his head and said nothing. Harry opened his mouth and let the words tumble out as they would. “It’s just, Professor Dumbledore always makes me feel like I’m a child, like I owe him something, like he has some claim over my life and I just have to sit in the place of the errant schoolboy as he passes judgment. That’s how it makes me feel. And you, you’re supposed to be the person who makes clean cauldrons for no reason because you hate me, who rips apart my mind but can’t be bothered to teach me properly because you want to bask in my own self-destruction.” Harry released a ragged breath. “You were supposed to be the villain in my story.” Harry’s voice cracked. 

Snape summoned firewhisky, poured himself a glass, and downed it. “I thought that your villain was the Dark Lord.” 

Harry shook his head. “That’s not my story. That’s my burden or something. That’s not a fairytale. He’s not even someone I can really hate in the way that matters because it’s so much more than that. I can’t even begin to explain all the complicated feelings that I have toward Voldemort or the fact that I’m some kind of symbol for the light. No, you were supposed to be like Draco Malfoy, the two of you petty ponces with ridiculous reasons for being awful to a person neither of you ever bothered to know.” 

Snape laughed bitterly. “So what, then? Why are you so upset if you are so determined I must hate you and be your childish villain?” 

Harry held Snape’s eyes, a flicker of silver light prancing behind his emerald orbs. “Because you’re not my villain anymore. You’re the only adult who’s sitting with me eye to eye and listening to me like I’m a person and not just a child or a hero. Everyone else sees that I need to be protected until I need to be manipulated into fighting, but you’re just sitting here, even now, and listening. No one ever listens. And that’s” Harry breaks off, emotion making his tongue thick and heavy. But there’s an itch beneath his skin and he needs to say this, needs to say it because he can feel it lying in wait and threatening to explode so he says, “and that’s more than any adult has ever done for me before.” They are both silent, staring at each other from across a thin glass coffee table, both sitting in identical comfortable armchairs. Harry breaks eye contact. 

“So thank you.” 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I want to say thank you to everyone reading my work and that I love all your comments with a passion that burns colder than the rooms in Dolos' high tower. 
> 
> In all seriousness lovely people of this fandom, stay safe and happy (belated) independence day. Sucks that it was on a Saturday, eh my dudes?


	8. Booking Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco blends in with the wall and Harry talks to Sev while some books get it on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading this work! I love you all and live for your comments.

Draco Malfoy watches, eyes narrowed, as Harry Potter walks purposefully down into the dark recesses of the dungeons, not at all concerned over yet another detention with Professor Snape. (His mind disagrees with the title, _“you used to call him Uncle Sev.”_ )

Draco casts a good disillusionment spell and follows, softening his footfalls with silent cushions, keeping a distance of about a meter between his front and Potter’s back. The look in Potter’s eyes, the stance of Potter’s spine, the set of Potter’s jaw -- they are all wrong for a golden boy heading into detention with the dungeon bat. Potter looks calm, relaxed, at peace. It must be said that Potter has looked a fair amount more tranquil this year when compared to his previously excitable, caustic self, but Potter hated Severus ( _Professor Snape? Uncle Sev?)_ for years, and something about his expression is not matching up to the situation. Few Slytherins would look so complacent heading to detention with Snape. _(Uncle Sev)._

He is a Slytherin, and so he follows Potter, glancing at the portraits on the rough stone walls that track Potter but skim over his near-invisible form, stepping on the edges of Potter’s shadow as it spreads backward on the polished black granite floor. The shadow is a suggestion, all smudged edges and obsidian darkness, like an artist drew a tear and splattered the ink, then spent the night trying to rub it down into nothingness.

Potter arrives at the heavy oak door and slips into Uncle Sev’s _(“Professor Snape’s, really are you five?”)_ office with no hesitation, a beacon of light gleaming over the space around Potter and illuminating him in a kind of halo. Potter’s shadow suddenly takes focus, the edges crisp as the corners of Mother’s parchment when she orders reports from Gringotts, and it lengthens until there is a small rectangle of black like midnight over the muted darkness of the floor stone, and then the door is closed with a quiet thud and the shadow gone with it. 

Draco can feel magic lock the door into place, and he can tell by the unnatural quiet that a silencing spell has been used. But he knows Uncle Sev, he sat on the man’s knee and held a training wand while the potion’s master whispered, “muffliato, a spell I made when I was much older than you are now but much younger than your father ever got to be,” and he has been hiding behind tapestries unraveling the quiet since he was old enough to hold a wand. _(Since he was eleven and about to go to Hogwarts, and in the summers since. It’s impressive, he thinks. He’s learned a lot more than he was meant to about his father’s place in the war, and he feels the skill is something that proves he belongs in Slytherin, heaven knows he is anything but subtle most of the time when he is antagonizing Potter.)_

He uses his wand and creates an opening in the silence, just one small hole for him to hear through. He learned early enough that if he tried to cancel the whole spell, Uncle Sev would notice. Most people have too much pride to leave the majority of the silencing spell intact -- they want to prove they can tear it down -- but Draco is confident that most people are stupid. Draco casts a small eavesdropping charm for good measure and patiently waits until he hears voices filter through. 

_“.... No, you were supposed to be like Draco Malfoy, the two of you petty ponces with ridiculous reasons for being awful to a person neither of you ever bothered to know.”_

Draco starts when he hears his name. So he is just awful to Potter for no reason, is he? Not at all like the idiot refused to shake his hand and all but spat in his face. Nothing worth knowing anyway. Potter has just proven with his words how utterly idiotic he is. He’s just insulted the professor _during_ detention. Draco can’t help but smirk, this won’t end well for Potter. 

Instead, Draco hears a bitter laugh from Uncle Sev. _“So what, then? Why are you so upset if you are so determined I must hate you and be your childish villain?”_

Draco's mouth drops open when the rebuke does not come and he closes his lips slowly. He understands now. He can make sense of Potter's earlier relaxed body language. Draco does not know how, but Potter has somehow entered into the esteem of Uncle Sev. And Potter and Uncle Sev are having a conversation, and it is important, and it is about Potter and his perception of the world. And Draco is nothing to Potter now but a childish villain, and all the calmness and detachment and his little taunt, “ _Envy suits me,”_ and his willingness to go along with Draco’s suggestions make sense. Draco is not important to Potter, not anymore, maybe he never really was. And Uncle Sev is important, for some reason, and that is hard for Potter. 

It is quiet for a moment, and then Draco hears Potter’s answer, slow -- deliberate even, and spoken in tones of such raw honesty Draco feels he must be bleeding. _“Because you’re not my villain anymore. You’re the only adult who’s sitting with me eye to eye and listening to me like I’m a person and not just a child or a hero. Everyone else sees that I need to be protected until I need to be manipulated into fighting, but you’re just sitting here, even now, and listening. No one ever listens. And that’s”_

The words are so beyond anything Draco ever thought he would hear and he is grateful for the moment of silence. Because the words are horrifyingly true. Draco’s been jealous, so unbelievably jealous of the golden boy with his fame and the headmaster’s love, and his glory wrapped so completely around his scrawny shoulders it billows like a cloak, and he never stopped to consider what that meant for Potter. Potter was fourteen when he saw Cedric Diggory murdered and had to fight the Dark Lord to return to Hogwarts with a still-warm corpse. _I could not have done that last year._ And when he was eleven, the headmaster awarded Potter points for _“Sheer outstanding nerve and undaunted courage,”_ or some shite like that, and Draco is almost sure that it had something to do with the third-floor corridor and the threat of “certain death” and the three days Potter spent in the hospital (not that Draco was counting,) and suddenly, Draco understands that Potter is a pawn that has been played and made the sacrifice, more times than anyone can count. 

Potter’s voice comes through again, soft and sad, and tinged with a hint of something fond, _“and that’s more than any adult has ever done for me before.”_

Somehow Uncle Sev, by refusing to treat Potter any differently, by refusing to laud Potter for risking his own neck, has become the one adult to treat Potter like a real person. And it makes so much sense, so much fucking sense, that Draco feels his chest squeeze into nothingness and his eyes shutter close as he tries to shut down his emotions.

Potter’s voice came through once more, gentle and firm, _“So thank you.”_

The words are wrong somehow. _Being treated like a human being, it’s not something to be grateful for. Potter, what have they done to you?_

It is quiet, and Draco wonders if Uncle Sev will tell Potter to go. He doesn’t. Uncle Sev clears his throat. 

…..

Harry is sitting on the comfy chair, hands in his lap clasped tight, and staring at the edge of one wall where a book is slowly dancing its way across a shelf and attempting to jump down to join another tome. 

Snape clears his throat, and Harry looks up, not quite into the man’s eyes, but at a particularly nice bit of forehead. 

“I will not accept your gratitude, Mr. Potter,” Snape says in his silky voice, “ for something that you are owed as a human being who is a student at this school. The way you have been treated thus far is reprehensible, you are no more a hero than you are a tool -- you are a person, Harry,” and now Snape’s voice is full of something Harry has never heard before, “and you should be treated like one.” 

Harry sinks further into the chair, watching as the book jumps down and the tome beneath opens with a heavy thud to create a kind of cushion, and then closes around the smaller book once it has fallen onto the waiting pages. 

Snape waves a hand. “Ah yes, they do that.” Harry laughs, both out of shock and because it is easier sometimes than crying. 

“Are they in love, Professor?” 

Snape cracks a smile. “No, but _A Book for All Occasions_ enjoys visiting _A Spell for Every Circumstance_ quite a lot, I suppose. I separate them, but _A Book for All Occasions_ has become quite mobile and I have had trouble keeping it in any one location.” 

Harry shakes his head. “Do you know that when I came here, I thought that the talking portraits would be the weirdest thing about the wizarding world? What a little fool, I was.” 

Snape cocks his head. “Yes, I suppose to someone raised by muggles the portraits would be a bit of a shock.” Snape considers Harry. “I think we should talk about them today.” 

Harry pretends indifference. “The portraits? I’m pretty sure that I can talk to the portrait of Salazaar in parseltongue and learn all sorts of things.” 

Snape smiles but it does not reach his eyes. “Yes, that would be useful. But you and I both know that I am speaking of your relatives.”

Harry goes back to looking at the amorous books. _Snape may say they are not in love, but book covers don’t exactly gyrate just for visits, do they?_ “Oh,” Harry says in a detached sort of voice, “them.”

Snape is no longer pretending amusement. “Yes,” he says evenly, “them.” Snape waves his wand and the books are forcefully separated, the smaller one still fluttering like mad and the larger one drooping and looking positively mortified. 

Harry looks back at Snape. He can get out of this, he knows, if he really wants to. He does want to on some level but … _it would be nice to talk about it to someone, maybe. Snape said his father was bad too -- he might understand._ Harry squares his shoulders. “Well alright then, but it has to be okay if I refuse to answer some questions and I want you to apologize to Neville.”

Snape raises a brow. “Apologize to Longbottom and be allowed some privacy, these are your terms?”

Harry nods.

Snape sighs. “We will have to work on your negotiations, but very well, I find the terms acceptable.”

Harry looks at Snape, waiting for a question. Snape seems to realize he will not be receiving any open-ended information at the moment and seems to think over his first question. 

“Why did you think that Dumbledore knew about the abuse?” 

It is an odd question to begin with, but easy enough to answer. “Because of my Hogwarts letter.” 

Snape nods, thoughtful. “Why would your Hogwarts letter be an indication of abuse?” 

Harry cannot contain his discomfort at the term “abuse,” but decides that it is not important enough to fight about. “Because it was addressed “To the Cupboard Under the Stairs,” Harry answers. 

Snape’s eyes narrow. “And why were you under the stairs, Potter?”  
  


Harry does not like this question, not at all, so he says, “You were calling me ‘Harry’ earlier today, Professor.” 

Snape grimaces. “So I was. Why were you under the stairs, Harry?”

Harry smiles faintly at the tiny victory. It gives him the courage to go on. He pauses, thinking about what to say. “It was my --” it wasn’t a room though was it, because _freaks like you don’t deserve rooms, not like Duddykins and normal children,_ “it was where I slept. Until the Hogwarts letters came.” 

Snape seems to absorb that for a moment, and his black eyes harden into onyx. “‘Until Hogwarts’ you say, so where do you sleep now?” 

“Dudley had a second bedroom, the smallest room in the house mind you, but it was where he kept all his broken toys. So when the letters came, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon got all concerned that maybe I was being watched and that someone would discover where I was kept and then maybe I dunno, get them in trouble, and send them to jail or take Dudley away. So now I get to sleep in Dudley’s second bedroom over the summer.” 

Snape strums his fingers on the glass coffee table. “I heard something about bars on your window.” 

It isn’t a question. Harry knows it was either Ron or the twins, or maybe he blabbed about it second-year, but it doesn’t seem to matter all that much because Snape already knows more than anyone about Harry’s home life, so he may as well know about that too. “Yeah, Uncle Vernon put bars on the window to keep the owls out and me in, I guess, and he also put a whole bunch of locks that can only open from the outside on the bedroom door. I guess that’s why he lets me stay in the bedroom now because even though we’re all pretty sure I’m not being watched or anything, the cupboard can’t be locked at night as securely as the bedroom door because it only has a latch.” 

“I see. Do you have chores, Harry?” Harry is glad for the subject change.

“Yes.”

“What must you do?”

“Everything, really. I vacuum and clean the house, I organize the cabinets, I garden, I cook, I wash up -- that sort of stuff.”

“And how young were you when this began?”

“When I was four or five I guess, I had to do the gardening and washing up, and by the time I was seven I had the whole list. At first, I liked the work, because I thought if maybe I did a good enough job they would learn to love me or something, and because if I did a good job sometimes I got to eat a little bit extra, but over the years it became more anxiety-provoking because I could never do anything well enough, and Vernon was always looking for an excuse to let out some of his anger.” 

“Did he beat you often?”

Harry swallows, grateful for the blunt nature of the question. He does not want to admit to anything, but he has to think about the times he was shaken, the times he was hit, and the times he felt a belt on his back and, “Yes. But not badly. It was only bad sometimes.”

Snape makes a noise that indicates disbelief. “Define a bad beating for me Mr. Potter and one that it is, by your account, not so bad. I wish to understand the difference.”

Harry looks resolutely at Snape’s nose. “I mean he would shake me pretty often, yeah, sometimes throw me around a bit or slam me into stuff, he loved to do that, but it was nothing that wouldn’t heal overnight. Bad was when he used his belt or took out a hammer from the garage, or when he wasn’t satisfied until he heard a crunch.”

Snape looks ill. “A hammer,” he said faintly, “Merlin.” Snape seemed to compose himself. “And how often was it ‘very bad’ as you say?”

Harry thinks it over. “I dunno, maybe a couple of times in a summer?” Harry bites his lip. “It was worse this time because I kept waking everyone up at the beginning because of nightmares about Mold the Vort and Cedric’s death, but I learned how to cast a wandless silencing spell and it got better.”

Snape smiles at Harry’s name for Voldemort as he considers the words Harry said. 

“Did they feed you enough?”

“No. They sometimes gave me can of cold soup and I’d share it with Hedwig, my owl,” Snape nodded in recognition, “but sometimes they didn’t. I was never allowed to eat at the table. When I was little, Dudley, that’s my cousin, he made fun of me and chased off anyone who wanted to be my friend by telling everyone I ate food out of the bin. I had taken to eating out of it sometimes when I was too hungry to go on, and Dudley saw me once and thought it was hysterical. And of course, the punishment for that offense was,” Harry tried to imitate Aunt Petunia's shrill voice, “no food for a week.” Snape cringed. 

Snape takes a shuddering breath and looks Harry in the eyes. “I’m sorry, Harry, but I have to ask.” Harry has a sinking feeling about the question he is about to answer. “Were you ever abused sexually?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. I was unwanted and an easy outlet for anger maybe, but Vernon’s interests didn’t run that way.” 

Snape nods, clearly relieved. “Well at least that’s something.” Harry shrugs. Snape pulls out a quill and conjures some parchment, making a small note. “I think I shall take you to madame Pomphrey this weekend to do a full and in-depth medical scan so that we can make sure you are functioning at your highest potential.”

Harry frowns. “Is that really necessary?”

Snape purses his lips. “Yes. I will drag you there by force if the need presents itself.” 

Harry holds up his hands. “Why so violent, Professor? I’m not into that sort of thing.”

Snape sputters and turns a little red, and at that moment Harry notices that something is wrong. He can hear the steady hum of the silencing spell but there is a break, _(a hole, the song told him,)_ and it leads to a louder song, one that sings of listening and that is tied to a song of hiding. Harry leans across the coffee table and picks up the parchment and quill, which read “Harry health visit, Saturday” and writes on it, “Someone is listening, and they are outside the door. There’s a hole in the silencing spell.” 

Snape reads the words and looks at Harry, askance, but nods. They walk to the door slowly, both moving at an even pace. They open the door swiftly, and Harry focuses on the song of hiding and yanks, pulling the spell away and letting the magic return to the open air, crackling like fireworks. Snape positively gawks at the display. Against the wall, a very frightened Draco Malfoy materializes, seemingly out of the stone. 

He looks up and his face colors to red, and there are too many emotions swimming in his silver eyes for Harry to identify them all. _Anguish, embarrassment, understanding, anger_ all bleeding through on Malfoy’s face. Most of all, the boy looks terrified. 

Malfoy tries to smile but it looks grotesque and frankly ghastly. He raises one hand in greeting. “Hi?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry: Um, so can books procreate?  
> Snape: I refuse to answer that question.  
> Hermione: Well, you see Harry, when two books love each other very, very, much --  
> Dolos: I was in love once.  
> Snape: ...  
> Dolos: Not with a book.


	9. Goddamnit Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes haywire and Hermione has a plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of my glorious readers. You are the brightest light for sharpening the darkest shadows. Leave a comment if you feel so inclined and have the best days you can.

Harry stared at Malfoy, his face void of any emotion. The blonde boy was still half crouching against the stone wall and he had made no attempts to stand up. Harry felt blood rushing in his ears. 

“How long have you been listening, Malfoy?” Harry’s hands were shaking but he managed to keep his voice measured and cool. It was an award-winning performance. 

Malfoy gulped audibly. His eyes ran through different scenarios and he was silent for a long stretch before he lowered his head in resignation. “... awhile.” 

_He knows. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows, it’s fucking Malfoy and he knows, oh god he -- he knows and I -- and he -- and he knows, he knows ---_

All Harry could hear was static. 

…

Draco had been listening to Uncle Sev and Potter’s conversation with amusement. Draco had seen many books having a “rendezvous” before, and he was fairly certain that Uncle Sev’s copy of _A Fae’s Account of Atlantian Toxins_ had taken a liking to Draco’s copy of _The Monster Book of Monsters._ He had once found them playing a rudimentary game resembling tag on his dorm room floor and been obliged to return _A Fae’s Account of Atlantian Toxins_ to Uncle Sev whereupon Uncle Sev had called the book, “a tactless whore.” It remains the only time Draco has heard such vulgar language from his favorite professor. 

And then Uncle Sev’s tone changed from lightly teasing to a coaxing somber. It changed to the tone of voice Draco remembered the Professor using once when Draco had been thirteen and terrified of everything because he had thought Blaise Zabini was more attractive than Pansy Parkinson and he’d rather snog Goyle than Greengrass. He’d spent the whole summer flinching away from his father and avoiding looking any man in the eye lest he blush and give himself away, and Uncle Sev had seamlessly herded him into a private room, given him some tea, and calmly asked him what was wrong. With words of understanding, Uncle Sev had finally coaxed out Draco’s admission that he was, “probably interested in men,” and that he was terrified of his father ever finding out. Uncle Sev had patted Draco on the back, said it was hard for Draco to know otherwise because the Malfoy family wasn’t exactly known for its ease of sexual education, but that Draco should know plenty of families had same-sex marriages. He only needed to look to the Shafiq and Travers family for some prime examples. 

Draco had said, “But what about an heir? I need to produce an heir.”

Uncle Sev had shrugged and said, “There are potions.” The discussion had ended there, and though Draco had not told his father, he felt a weight lift off his shoulders. He’d even snogged Nott a couple of times, but both boys had decided they were better off as friends without benefits. 

Draco leaned forward with interest. Whatever Uncle Sev was getting Potter to talk about was secret, and secrets were always useful. If Potter had half the shame about whatever he was going to admit that Draco had harbored, getting Potter to do favors would be a cake-walk. 

Potter had evaded talking about his muggles by joking about conversing with Slytherin’s portrait, **in parseltongue,** and wasn’t that a thought? _Why the fuck wasn’t a literal parseltongue in Slytherin, the stupid git._

And then Snape had brought everything back in his patient tone of voice, _“_ _But you and I both know that I am speaking of your relatives.”_

It was unexpected, to say the least. Why would Potter’s relatives warrant such --

Potter’s voice came through flat and dead, “ _Oh. Them.”_ Dismissive. Potter was never dismissive. And then Potter tried to set limits on what Snape could ask. _As if muggles could possibly be interesting. Was Snape trying to learn about the muggle world? Exploit Harry’s idiotic notions that muggles have anything worth contributing?_

_“Why did you think that Dumbledore knew about the abuse?”_

Those words did not make sense. Dumbledore. Abuse. Harry Potter. Abuse? He was practically royalty. 

_“Because of my Hogwarts letter.”_ What? What’s that got anything to do with -- _“Because it was addressed “To the Cupboard Under the Stairs,”_

Fuck. Draco's image of a beloved little boy who spent the summer with elven princes and rode dragons splintered into pieces. The words kept coming through and Draco began to have a mental picture of Potter's childhood. He was kept in a closet until he was eleven. Probably didn’t have enough room for a bed. Just slept unloved, untouched, in the dark, on a cot. It was a pathetic enough story that some people would laugh, good enough for taunting but not enough for publishing. Still, it was something. Harry Potter might even be claustrophobic. 

But Uncle Sev was still asking questions. _Salazaar no, that has to be it._

_“And how young were you when this began?”_

_“Did he beat you often?”_

_“Did they feed you enough?”_

_Had his friends chased off because he’d been starving and forced to eat. Out. of. The. bin. He’d been_ **_that_ ** _hungry. As a little boy._

Draco was in shock. Potter had been forced to complete chores, since he was four fucking years old, a baby. He'd been working hard so that maybe filthy muggles **might** love him. As if he was unlovable. Beaten. Starved. It was a legitimate miracle Potter didn’t become an obscurus. _I certainly would have, under those circumstances._ And Potter wasn’t dark, or angry, or murderous. He laughed. He was still strong. And Draco knew he had all the pieces, he had all the pieces and he could just throw a few pebbles made of damning words and shatter Potter and -- 

_I can never use this against him. I can’t. I won’t. He’s suffered enough._

And then Draco felt like he needed to vomit because he realized how he must have sounded on the express all those years ago, insulting Potter's first friend for being poor. He insulted Weasley's poverty when Harry had been forced to eat out of the bin and was sitting with broken glasses in faded hand-me-downs. And what had he said earlier in Madam Malkins? Something like people raised by muggles shouldn’t be allowed in? _Bloody hell, no wonder he wanted nothing to do with me._

Draco was still stewing over his own woeful inadequacies and his burning desire to kill everyone who had ever decided it was acceptable to harm and abuse a wizard child when the door to Uncle Sev’s office opened. 

Against the sudden onslaught of light, Draco could see a stone-faced Uncle Sev and an annoyed Potter. Potter looked right at the wall where Draco was disillusioned, and Draco could feel the spell rip away from his person and then cackle in the air and disperse in glittering crystals. Draco’s mouth nearly dropped open. _Magic doesn’t work like that, does it?_

And then Draco noticed Potter looking at him. Looking at him like a rug had been swept out from underneath his feet. Trying to appeal to Potter’s Gryffindor spirit, Draco raised one hand. “Hi?”

He was met by silence. Uncle Sev looked like a statue, but Draco could feel the anger burning in the man’s eyes.

Potter’s hands were shaking but his voice was measured, “How long have you been listening, Malfoy?” And the voice was so cold it was frightening. Draco had never heard anyone speak like that before. 

Repressing a shiver, Draco ran through his options. He could lie, but it would not be believable. He could tell the whole truth but Potter would go ballistic. Vague. He needed to be vague and honest. “... awhile.” 

Potter looked at him, green eyes suddenly blank and unseeing. Potter’s hands were still shaking and the air around him was beginning to vibrate. 

Uncle Sev took a step forward and stood in front of Potter. 

“Potter, Harry, you need to breathe.” 

The shaking intensified and the walls began to tremble. 

“Breathe dammit! Come on, in and out. You can do it. In and out.”

Draco looked down at the floor, alarmed, as a wide gash began to cut into the obsidian tiles. 

Potter looked at Uncle Sev, breathing far too quickly and seeming so, so lost. 

“It was on purpose, wasn’t it? You knew.” His voice was void of any emotion. The walls were beginning to crumble at the edges. 

Draco moved to the center of the hallway, looking enviously at all the portraits who were fleeing their frames as Potter’s angry magic lashed out and cut the paintings to pieces. 

“I knew what, Potter? You need to calm down. Breathe with me, in and out, come on now.” Uncle Sev rested a shaky hand on Potter’s shoulder only to draw it back with a hiss as though burned. 

“You knew he was here, didn’t you?” And suddenly Potter’s eyes flashed with anger and the air went still. “You set me up. Of course you did. It was too much for you to actually care about me, you still hate me just as much as you always have, don’t you?” Harry’s hand clenched into a fist and a section of the wall collapsed. “Bet this was just a way for you to get into my head, and share everything with fucking Voldemort, wasn’t it? And now you and Malfoy and the whole bloody school can laugh about pathetic Potter stuck in the cupboard. I bet you knew he was here, and you asked me as if you cared, and like an idiot, I believed you because I needed -- I needed someone -- and you -- you used it against me.”

Potter was still shaking but not with anger anymore but barely suppressed sobs. 

Uncle Sev looked stricken. _That’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen him show._

“Potter, Harry, no. I did not know Draco was listening to you. I would never betray your confidence like that. I can make him swear to a vow of secrecy. I --”

Potter held up a hand. “Stop trying to make it all better!” Another cut materialized on the floor. “I know what you’ve done and your words mean fucking nothing. Wouldn’t betray me? Like you would never have betrayed _your master?”_ Harry’s voice was cruel and sharp. Uncle Sev flinched and his hand went to his forearm. “Yeah, you bear his mark, don’t you? And I’m supposed to believe in you?”

“Do not speak as if you know me!” Uncle Sev roared. “You ungrateful, arrogant -- ”

He was cut off as Potter laughed hysterically. “Yeah, that’s how you actually treat me.” Potter looked at Uncle Sev and then down at where Draco was still huddling into the floor. “I hope to hell this was worth it for the two of you. Feel proud when you kiss your lord’s feet, won’t you?” And then with a loud crack, Harry disappeared. 

The air was heavy and dry. The ground had seven gashes, one so deep it cut straight into the earth. A section of the hall had collapsed into rubble. Strands of shredded parchment drifted suspended in the air. 

“He … apparated. Inside Hogwarts.” Draco said. He looked at Uncle Sev who seemed shocked as he looked at the damage. 

“Yes.” Uncle Sev seemed mystified. The professor shook himself. “Rules have never seemed to mean much to Potter.” 

Draco nodded and picked himself off the floor. He began to head back toward the common room when a hand latched around his robe and pulled him backward. Uncle Sev grabbed his ear in a sharp pinch.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Came Uncle Sev’s silky voice. 

_He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die. But Potter’s magic … this changes everything._

…

Hermione was lying down with her head in Ron’s lap silently as he absentmindedly ran his fingers through her hair. 

“Sickle for your thoughts?” He asked her. 

Hermione furrowed her brow. “It’s just, I was thinking about magic.” 

Ron shrugged. “What about it, ‘Mione?” 

Hermione bit her bottom lip. “Harry has so much power. He can layer a dozen shields and create chains with no problems. But Ernie, he can barely make more than two layers before he’s out of energy.” 

Ron nodded. “Yeah, alright, so what?” There was always a so-what with Hermione.

“Well, what happens if we’re in a duel, and the person we’re fighting against has more energy than us? How can we teach people to defend themselves against those with more magical power? I could never defeat Harry in a straight duel because he can just cast longer than me. I could probably outsmart him, but Ernie would be dead in six minutes or less against someone with Harry’s strength.” 

Ron shrugged again. “Well, that’s just the way it is with magic, innit?” 

Hermione scrunched her nose and sat up. “But there has to be something we can do for people who aren’t so strong. There has to be a way to protect them.” She looked into Ron’s blue eyes with such an earnest expression it made his breath stutter. “There has to be.” She repeated. He ruffled her hair and she looked at him mutinously. 

“Hermione,” he said slowly, “I said that’s the way it is with _magic._ You’re the muggleborn. Muggles defend themselves all the time without magic. There has to be some reason us wizards are so afraid of muggles ever finding us. You know better than anyone here about the muggle world. How do they defend themselves? Bet you wizards could learn a thing or two from them.”

Hermione's eyes lit up and she clasped her arms around Ron’s neck. “You’re right.” She said into his shoulder. “Thank you. I’ve got an answer.”

Ron laid a hand carefully on her back. “Yeah?” He said a bit hoarsely. 

“I’m going to make guns.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco: Mother!  
> Narcissa: Darling.  
> Draco: The Playful Potter books were not true!  
> Narcissa: They were fiction, yes.  
> Draco: I'm suing the author.  
> Narcissa: But why, Darling?  
> Draco: Because some people might have been given the wrong idea about Potter.  
> Narcissa: ...  
> Narcissa: Like you, darling?  
> Draco: Call father's lawyer, please mother?  
> Narcissa: It's always ...  
> Zabini, Nott, Greg, Vincent, (and other ensemble Slytherin fifth years): fucking Potter.  
> Severus: Well, this is the Harry Potter franchise, is it not?


	10. Sound of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miscommunication is the name of the game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow my dudes, 5k hits already and 400+ kudos? I'm living the dream!
> 
> This chapter was written during an extreme bout of writer's block, so I hope the quality is up to snuff. I figured I had to get SOMETHING out there to move on to the stuff I already have figured out (like teenage Hermione and her adolescent army)
> 
> Check out my other fic: "Dripping Fingers" --> Ever wondered what would have happened if Harry had drawn in Tom's diary?
> 
> As always, leave a comment, you beautiful humans (or extra-terrestrial beings)

There are 206 bones in the adult human body. Harry liked to count them when he was a child. It was a game he played with himself in the dark of his cupboard, counting out every bone as a meditation before sleep. Harry relied on his proprioception to go down his body one by one, tapping each bone and cataloging how it felt. 

It was a game to Harry because something was always broken; it was his ulna, or his tibia, or his fibula, or just one finger (phalanges) if he was lucky. He would count out every bone before bed and ask, “ _How much more can they break?”_

When Draco appeared out of the shadows, Harry had felt himself hiding in his dark cupboard, counting out his vertebrae and asking, “ _How much more can they break?”_

_***_

The first thing Harry noticed was the ground. The ground seemed awfully far away from where Harry was perched. He could see the Quidditch pitch; he could watch as the Ravenclaw team practiced wholeheartedly, _but not with a whole lot of talent._

Harry gave the Ravenclaw team a cursory glance, but he turned his gaze to the lake. From his high vantage point, Harry watched the clouds reflect on the surface of the water, the sky spreading out to fill the surface of the lake until the depths below were obscured beneath deceptive calm. 

As Harry focused on the lake he began to hear the merpeople’s song, high and grating, warning him that he would lose his loved ones forever and that time was running out. _As if I don’t know that. As if my life isn’t one huge hourglass and I have to watch as the sand drips through, inexorably leading to the day I die after all the people I care about have left me behind._

Harry can’t help but remember the feeling of choking on air as he bit into his gillyweed, the feeling of despair as he saw real breathing people looking ahead blankly as if they were already dead. Harry sees Fleur’s eyes, wide and terrified with a desperation to save her little sister. He feels Gabrielle’s body in his arms, small and young, _too young to die._

And the whole experience just dissipated like smoke from a pipe. ( _They were never in any danger. You didn’t really believe they would die, did you? They were all perfectly safe.)_ The knowledge that they were safe after can’t take away the grim certainty Harry had during , can’t take away the memories that wander and demand attention, the nightmares of a little girl with blonde hair gulping down water as she fights to live and then drowning with the accusation, “ **you didn’t save me.** ” 

Knowing that the danger was all for show doesn’t take away Harry’s nightmares anymore than it takes away his thousands of imagined apologies, “ **I know. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry.** ”

And they weren’t safe the whole time, were they? ( _KIll the spare.)_ And Harry’s a liar now, isn’t he? His hand bears the scars of the distrust and mistrust for a bleeding boy who came back, half-tortured, holding a corpse in his arms. 

_They were perfectly safe? Don’t make me laugh. We’ve never been safe from the beginning. We’re all pawns ready for the sacrifice, bound and bleeding on an altar, blood forcibly taken in an adult’s war._

_How much more can they_ _break?_

Harry’s breaths were erratic, so he forced himself to relax by clenching and unclenching his fists. He listened to his heartbeat, tapping his pulse rhythmically into his thigh. As Harry came back into himself, he noticed where he had ended up and laughed. 

Harry perched atop the highest spire of Gryffindor tower. _Pretty sure I’m only breaking about a million school rules to be up here._ Harry took a deep breath and allowed the wind to rush over him. 

He sat there, silently, breathing in with the breeze and out with the distant sound of a quaffle being passed from player to player. After some time had passed, hard to know how much really, Harry came to a rather shocking revelation. _I have to get down, somehow._ Harry looked dubiously at the ground far below him. _If I fell, it would be really bad._ He laughed weakly. 

Just as Harry had this thought, Cho Chang made lazy circles on her broom looking for the snitch. The rim of Harry’s glasses caught the light. She turned to face him, eyes squinting for the golden ball, and then her eyes widened in shock. 

“Oh my god, Harry Potter’s on the roof.” The Ravenclaw team groaned. 

“Cho,” one of the beaters, Inglebee, said, “you got to get over that kid.” There were murmurs of agreement. Cho starts to fly toward Harry. 

“No, Duncan, I swear, Harry’s on the roof of Gryffindor tower.” 

Inglebee rolled his eyes, “as if I’m that gullible Cho, really who do you think you’re --”  
  


“Holy shit!” Roger Davies exclaimed, “Harry’s actually on the roof.” The whole team turned and zeroed in on the figure sitting atop the spire. They advanced as a unit towards it. Harry and he felt his cheeks warm with the signs of a blush. With a rushing sense of deja vu, Harry raised one hand weakly. 

“Hi?” He said.

Grant Page, the keeper, looked at Harry with no small amount of alarm. “Alright there, Potter?” He asked. 

Harry shrugged and adopted an air of nonchalance. “Oh yeah, I’m great actually.” He winced at his tone which had come across as both sarcastic and melancholy. _Nice one Potter._

The team exchanged silent glances. Nodding to themselves, they all spread out and arrange themself in a loose circle around Harry. If Harry were to fall (or jump) someone could catch him.

Page came up so that he was within arm’s reach of Harry. “Hey man, you need a lift down?” He offered. His voice was very soft, and he held out his hand cautiously. 

Harry looked at him. “Alright, yeah. Thanks.” Harry took the hand and gracefully swung himself to the back of Page’s broom. As soon as he was settled behind the keeper, the older boy let out a sigh of apparent relief. 

Harry was escorted to the ground with the entire Ravenclaw team behind him. Everyone was deathly quiet when Harry jumped the last meter to the grass. Harry waved up at all of them and said, “thanks, guys.” 

He was about to just sluff off to go hide his face in a hole when Page dismounted and handed his broom to Jason Samuels. “Let’s go to Pomphrey together, yeah Potter?” Page said. 

“Oh, I’m fine really. Not a scratch.” Harry laughed in a self-deprecating manner. Page threw one arm around Harry’s shoulder, and the entire team narrowed their eyes at the flinch. 

“Potter,” he said, his voice frighteningly serious, “we just found you on top of **_Gryffindor_** **_Tower._** For our peace of mind, for my peace of mind, I’d really like you to be seen by Madame Pomphrey. There’s no shame in feeling overwhelmed, Potter. Merlin knows you’ve been through twice as much at least as anyone else here.”

The whole team was nodding solemnly, and Harry felt his eyes light up with understanding.

“Oh, you guys think I was trying to jump.” The silence following that statement was positively deafening. “I wasn’t,” Harry said cracking a grin. He had an odd thought that his words were not making the situation better. Cho was crying again, _why does she always cry,_ and Jeremy Stretton was looking quite pale. 

“Oh my god,” Harry heard Davies whisper, “I had no idea it was so bad.” 

Page started to pull Harry toward the school, arms still wrapped protectively around Harry’s shoulders. “Let’s just go to Pomphrey and she’ll set you to rights. Not to worry, Potter.” Page’s voice was very, very, worried. Harry shrugged out of his hold. 

“I’m fine really.” Page looked unconvinced. “Nothing to worry about, I swear, I’m just peachy and golden.” Page did not dignify that with a response and continued herding Harry inside. Harry looked at the school as he entered the halls, his voice catching in his throat. “What happened here?”

The school was in disarray. Students were huddled underneath doorways and all of the portraits were crying hysterically. One portrait man saw Harry and screamed then started to run, jumping frame to frame, and suddenly all the painted figures focused on Harry and began to flee. 

Lisa Turpin saw Page and ran up to him panting slightly and pulled him and Harry to stand underneath an archway. 

“There was,” Turpin said, “A magical storm, in the dungeons. It destroyed the hallway outside of Professor Snape’s office. All the portraits are hysterical. It felt like an earthquake, the whole castle was shuddering.” 

Harry stared at her. “In the dungeons, you say?” His voice was a high squeak.

Turpin nodded. Page frowned down at Harry. “Potter, why were all the portraits running away from you?” Turpin looked at Harry then too. Harry pretended to look confused.

“Oh, were they running from me? I thought they were running from you Page.” 

Page shook his head. “You’re an awful liar but I’m not a Slytherin so I don’t care.” Page turned to Turpin. “Potter and I were just on our way to Madame Pomphrey, actually. I think we’ll brave the possibility of the magic storm.” Page began to tug Harry to a staircase when Dumbledore, dressed resplendently in shimmering sky blue and golden twine robes, came striding toward the pair. 

“Students,” Dumbeldore said with the aid of a sonorous, “the magic storm is over and everyone is absolutely safe. The hallway will be healed in no time at all and Hogwarts could do with a nice little update every now and again. What’s a little remodeling to a fortress! In fact, I should like to introduce a friendly competition. Anyone is welcome to submit designs for the new construction of the hallway outside Professor Snape’s office, and the winner will be selected by the Professor himself! What a mark to leave upon the school!” Dumbledore smiled beatifically and students began to untangle themselves from hiding places.

Page smiled tightly and resumed pulling Harry to the infirmary. He was stopped, however, by Dumbledore. The headmaster laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Harry, do you have time for a cup of tea with an old man?” 

Page looked at the headmaster with no fear and said, quite firmly, “Harry needs to go to Madame Pomphrey.” Dumbledore smiled. 

“Grant, thank you, ten points to Ravenclaw for helping out a student in need. It's always nice to see, but no worries. I’ll take Harry to Poppy.” Dumbeldore said.  
  


Page wavered for a moment. “Alright then, Headmaster. Make sure she knows I found him on the top of Gryffindor tower.”

Dumbledore raised a brow. “Oh indeed.” He looked down at Harry. “I suppose she would like to hear about that, yes. Thank you Grant.”

Page nodded. “Make sure he gets there safely, Headmaster.” 

Harry began walking of his own volition. “I’m fine.” He said forcefully. Dumbledore fell into step beside him.

“I doubt that, Harry,” Dumbledore said almost too quietly to be heard. “I doubt that very much.”

***

Dumbledore’s office felt colder than Harry remembered it. It had the same higgledy-piggledy piles of book and whirring silver instruments as it always had, but Harry felt chilled as soon as set foot on the polished floor. Dumbledore sat down in his high backed chair across his desk and motioned for Harry to take a seat on one of the chairs across from him. 

“Take a seat, Harry.”

Harry sat. “Would you like some tea, Harry? Perhaps some biscuits?” Dumbledore asked. 

Harry shook his head. “No, I’m good, thanks.” 

Dumbledore nodded and conjured some tea for himself. The milk poured itself into his saucer, and the sugar tapped out a handful of crystals into the cup. Dumbledore smiled and sniffed the aroma of his overly sweet beverage before taking a large gulp. 

“I am always drinking tea. It never gets old, not at all like my relentless aging.” Dumbeldore laughed lightly. 

“With all due respect, sir,” Harry said, “why am I here and not with Madame Pomphrey?”

Dumbledore smiled. “I’m not disrespected in the slightest. I suspect that your adventure to Gryffindor tower has a great deal to do with the magical storm from earlier.”

Harry stared at the headmaster blankly. 

“I am not upset, Harry. I am only trying to understand. What made you so angry? You do not strike me as someone with so great a temper.” Dumbledore thrummed one finger against his desk.

“I’m not sure what you are talking about,” Harry said. 

“Oh, I’m quite certain you are. You may not want to tell me, however.” Dumbledore sighed and looked at Harry. “I have failed you in every way, Harry. I apologize.” Harry snorted and then turned it into a cough. 

“I'm sure you've done what you thought was best,” Harry said diplomatically. 

“And therein lies the problem. I am just one man. I have power behind my name but I am still fallible. No one person can handle the burdens of the world on their shoulders alone. We all need a little help. I have been too prideful, I am afraid, to seek it out.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Why am I here, sir?” He said again.

Dumbledore exhaled slowly. “Harry, you have no reason to trust me. You do not have to tell me why you ripped apart the dungeons. I suppose I should not have to tell you that should such an incident occur again, I will feel a need to question you further. I only ask you to find someone with whom you can share your burdens lest they tear you apart from the inside out.” 

Harry nodded once. _I see what you’re doing here, but telling me to share with an adult right after I’ve been betrayed by an adult is not the wisest thing._ Harry was silent for a moment, and then he stood. “Thank you, sir, for that advice,” Harry said. He moved to exit the office.

“Thank you, Harry,” Dumbledore said, “for your perseverance.” 

***

Harry had barely made it a few steps out of the headmaster’s office before hands were roughly pulling him into an abandoned classroom. 

Reacting on instinct, Harry reached up and took hold of the attacker’s wrist, slinging the offender onto the ground, and pinning the assailant with a wand underneath his chin. Harry looked down and realized he was sitting atop Draco Malfoy, blonde hair spread out on the floor and cheeks red with exertion. 

“Kinky.” Malfoy said with a wink.

“Malfoy? What the fuck are you doing here?” Harry hissed. “Here to antagonize me?”

Malfoy shook his head. “Antagonize, not I! I’m here to apologize and tell you I won’t tell anyone about what I’ve learned. I don’t even think you’re weaker for it. If anything, living through what you lived through and coming out as decent as you are makes you strong.”

Harry pulled Malfoy up into a seated position but kept his wand underneath the blonde’s chin. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Harry said. 

“The truth, Potter. I’m on Veritaserum.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “And I’m the goddamn queen. Seriously, why are you here?”  
  


Malfoy glared at Harry. “Snape made me take Veritaserum to figure out why I had come and listened to you, and now he said I had to come and apologize and he won’t give me the antidote until we both go down to his office together.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes. “And how should I believe that you are really on Veritaserum?”

  
Malfoy cocked his head. “Ask me something embarrassing and I’ll have to answer.” 

Harry thought for a moment. “What is something you’re hiding from your father?”  
  


“That I’m gay.” Malfoy’s answer was immediate and his cheeks went scarlet. Harry raised a brow. 

“Would he disapprove?” Malfoy bit his lip.

“Hard to know, really. Father imagines that I’ll marry a Greengrass. If they had a boy, maybe he would not mind, but they only have the two girls, so …”

“So he would rather you stick with women.” Harry finished. Malfoy nodded. “Alright then,” Harry said slowly, “I’ll pretend to go along with this for now.” 

Malfoy looked relieved. “Good,” he said, “because otherwise, Uncle Sev will kill me.”

Harry smirked. “That would be your fault.”

Malfoy nodded. “Yes, indeed it would. Ask, Potter. I haven’t got all night.”  
  


Harry sighed. “You make it sound as if I’m doing you some great favor. Did Snape set you up so you could hear?”  
  


Malfoy shook his head. “No. He was livid that I’d heard anything at all.”

“Why?”

  
Malfoy hummed thoughtfully. “I think he really cares about you. He talks to you like he talks to my father sometimes, full of banter. I think he’s fond of you, more so than anyone I’ve seen. He was practically going hysterical at the thought of losing your trust.” 

Harry paused for a moment, thinking over all the things Malfoy had said. If they were true … 

_Well, I’d need to apologize, wouldn’t I? God. The things I said._

“And you’re not going to tell anyone, about, everything? Not going to joke about my cupboard?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You mean joke about abuse? Of course not. What, do you think us Slytherins hear about violence against children and laugh? Think we find the suffering of babies amusing? Hysterical. No one would laugh about it. We all have our own demons. I have no need to share yours.” 

  
“Would you swear not to talk about it?”

Malfoy smiled tightly. “Yes.” 

Harry felt shock reverberate down his spine. “Really?”

“... yes, Potter. I literally cannot lie at the moment. My answers will not change.”

Harry smiled widely. “Oh, alright then. If you can’t lie, why is it that you’re so mean to Hermione?”

Malfoy sighed. “It’s a long answer,” he said. “She does better than me in school. My father has told me my whole life that mudbloods are inferior to purebloods. And yet, one muggleborn girl manages to befriend the person I’ve wanted to befriend my whole life, displays incredible magical talent in every class, and knows more information about magical theory than anyone else in our year. It is threatening, not just because she is outperforming me, but also because she is disproving one of the foundational aspects of Pureblood rhetoric. Of course I try relentlessly to remind her of her ‘supposed place.’ She is living proof that magical prowess may have no relation to blood."

“I had no idea you wanted to befriend Ron so badly.” Harry joked.  
  
Malfoy swatted away Harry’s wand and rubbed the bottom of his chin. “I wanted to befriend you, you bastard. I’ve wanted to know you my whole life.”  
  


Harry was mystified. “Why?” He asked.

Draco blushed. “I read books about you when I was younger. They were called _The Playful Potter Prints._ I was obsessed.” 

Harry laughed, long and rich. “Oh, that’s brilliant. I read one at the Weasley’s house. It claimed I spent my eighth birthday with sprites in the Amazon Rainforest.”  
  


Draco looked serious. “If I’d known about the truth earlier, I could have done something. Gotten you out of there using Malfoy resources. I could have sent you gifts for Yule at the very least, sent you everleafs for the equinox, I could have--”  
  


“Draco,” Harry said, “Why do you care?”

“Because I’ve always cared about you, Harry.” Draco seemed to choke for a moment. “Shit, I mean, I don’t care about you … I’ve always wanted to be around you … I mean, you’re not that important … to me, you are, but not to everyone, but I mean, yes.” 

Harry looked at Draco with wide eyes. “What are you trying to say, Draco?”

“I’m not trying to say anything, Potter. I’m on Veritaserum and I have to answer your questions.” 

Harry stilled and considered. His lips quirked upwards, teasing. “Do you hate me, Malfoy?”

“No.” The answer was said quickly. 

“Then do you care about me, Malfoy?”  
  


“Yes,” Draco said, his voice barely a whisper. "I mean ... yes." Draco's eyes were hazy and unfocused.

Harry furrowed his brow. He leaned towards Malfoy until their foreheads were touching. Draco gulped and Harry rested a hand against the bobbing adam’s apple. Their breath intermingled. 

“Do you fancy me, Draco?” Harry asked, voice soft and sweet. Draco was shaking slightly. 

“I’m not sure.” Both boys were silent. Draco lifted one hand to Harry's cheek. “I think, I think I do.” 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry to Draco:
> 
> "OBviOUslY YoU FAnCY mE"
> 
> Draco to Harry:
> 
> "UNFoRtUNAteLy"
> 
> Professor Snape to his dunderheads:
> 
> "SILENCIO"


	11. Cuddle Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape behaves a little OOC (or maybe he's just grown) and is fluffy with Harry.
> 
> People freak out over Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL, FOLKS, it's been a while. <3
> 
> I am sorry for the time between the last update and this one. I've been getting ready for the return to Uni which has been insane bc COVID is just making everything ridiculously challenging.
> 
> I hope this one makes you guys smile and please, please, leave a comment if you have something to say. Or want to rant. Or want to ask questions. Just leave comments, they make my days.

Harry and Draco make their way to the Dungeons silently. Harry is blushing and Draco is blushing, and neither of them are looking at one another. 

(“I think, I think I do.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,  _ what?” _

“Okay. Erm. I’ll get back to you.”

“Get  **_back to me_ ** ?”

“Yeah.”

“...Right. Fucking Potter.”)

When they finally arrive (awkwardly) in the ruined corridor outside Snape’s office, Harry is ready in equal parts to just grab Draco’s neck and snog him into next week or throw in the towel and forget the whole night ever happened. 

He does neither and knocks on Snape’s (miraculously undamaged) door with shaky hands. As soon as has he lays one knuckle on the wood, the door swings open revealing a disheveled and statically anxious Severus Snape. Snape looks at Harry and Draco with bright eyes simply  _ shining  _ with relief before he schools his features into an impassive mask and casts a quick spell that straightens his clothing. 

“Come in.” He says with a silky tone. Harry and Draco make their way into the office. 

“I trust the two of you have worked out your problems?” Snape says with a brow raised. 

Harry says, “Yes, Professor,” just as Draco says, “not in the slightest,” and then his face imitates a tomato in its complexion.

Snape’s eyes flash. He glares malevolently down at the blonde Slytherin. 

“Explain.” His voice is commanding and deadly.

Draco’s jaw trembles.  _ Man, his jaw is sharp.  _ “Harry knows that I won’t spread around his childhood or anything …”

Snape is supremely unimpressed. “But…” he prods, “you have lingering problems?”

“I confessed that I might fancy him, but at this point, it's less of a 'might' and more of a 'highly likely state of affairs,' and that fucker--” Draco gestures vaguely in the direction of Harry with no small amount of agitation, “--that insignificant whelp of ungodly powerful beauty -- said he’d ‘ _ get back to me.’ _ ” Draco is flushed and visibly upset. “So, yes Snape, I’d say we have unresolved, _lingering,_ problems.” 

Harry and Snape make eye contact with one another. Snape’s lips twitch. The small action pushes Harry over the edge, and he bursts into laughter. 

“Oh, an insignificant whelp of ungodly powerful beauty, am I?” He says.

Draco shrugs but is still under the influence of Veritaserum and so a very reluctant, “... that’s what I said, didn’t I?” is drawn out from him. 

Snape rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “oh you’ll be a great teacher, he told me, the students will be more mature than you imagine, he consoled me. More mature my ass,” before retrieving a bottle and stalking over to Draco. 

“Open your mouth lest I have to hear any more of your teenage drama.” 

Draco opens his mouth and Snape administers the antidote. “Go on then, Malfoy,” Snape says, “go back to being your judgemental, dissembling self.” 

Malfoy glares. “And what of Harry?” He says, “Is Potter dismissed as well?” 

Snape does not answer the question. “Go, Malfoy.” He commands. Malfoy leaves in a storm of sneers and blonde hair. The door behind him clangs shut. 

“Professor?” Harry questions. 

Snape makes a motion to a sofa. Harry sits and Snape takes a position beside him as opposed to across from him. He is silent for a long moment.

“I am sorry, Harry.” He finally says. 

“What do you mean, Professor?” Harry asks. 

“About Malfoy, I suppose. About the last few years and the way I have treated you, certainly.” 

Harry looks up surprised and Snape continues. “There was no reason for me to be as undeniably cruel as I have been to you, and I have treated you with nothing other than contempt for four years. It is no surprise that you were so ready to accept my betrayal. I have not done nearly enough to atone for all the wrongs I have committed against your person. You are arrogant, insufferable, and idiotic, but you are also Harry and not Potter, and I am afraid I have seen the distinction far too late.”

Harry scratches the back of his neck. “That’s all right, Professor. I’m sorry for making light of your time with Voldy Mort-Mort. I can’t imagine it was a choice you made willingly and you’ve saved my life at least twice, so you must be at least half-decent, by my estimations.” 

Snape gives Harry a small smile. “A quarter, I’d say. I have a long way to go.” 

Harry mirrors the smile. “I think we all do.”

Snape wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “At least I have an insignificant whelp to teach me.”

***

All it takes, apparently, for people to believe Harry about the Dark Lord’s return is the rumor that he jumped from Gryffindor tower. In some accounts of the story, he was saved by the Ravenclaw Quidditch team (mostly true), in others, he was saved by a dragon (patently false), and in one particularly odd iteration, Harry was saved by a strong gust of wind sent by none other than Thanassis Lockheart, the younger brother of Giledory Lockheart and who was apparently visiting the castle for “reasons of reconnaissance.” That rumor is so far-fetched that only the Weasley twins repeat it, but repeat it they do, so it is one of the most often spoken (if not most believed) renditions of Harry’s supposed leap of faith into the waiting arms of some magical hero. 

While the rumor mill is amusing, Harry struggles with the emotional response the entire school seems to have to the idea that their “hero,” or “fucking-annoying-golden-boy,” is apparently suicidal. The Gryffindors have removed all sharp objects from the common room and Ron or the twins religiously take away any knives within reach during meal times. There is always someone with Harry when he goes anywhere and he swears that multiple people record how long he takes doing anything on his own. Harry had managed twenty minutes of solitude in the shower one evening before Seamus, Neville, and George Weasley had all busted down the door looking extremely grey in the face and on the verge of tears. 

(Harry, holy shit, you’re okay. He’s okay. You’re okay. You’re okay now.)

Harry’s been taking five-minute showers since.

Harry cannot  _ walk _ to class without being accosted by at least six Hufflepuffs offering him support in the form of sweets, tissues, backrubs, or therapy. The Ravenclaws keep pushing books into his hand on “mind healing,” or “depression and the steps to recovery,” or any topic under the sun that relates to mental health. He’s been given pamphlets, advice, and one ‘Claw offered medication. (Some Hufflepuffs have offered Harry recreational substances, but he has declined the offer graciously, he’s really not sure he’s comfortable feeling out of control). 

The Slytherins continue to surprise Harry in their response. He had imagined that they would laugh at his emotional weakness and gloat about breaking him down. With the exception of Pansy Parkinson, the Slytherins almost seem to be taking the news the hardest. They have all stopped teasing him about anything, Travis offered him potions help, and the Slytherins have ceased hexing other houses in the halls. Harry was walking underneath his invisibility cloak near the dungeons (not because he wanted to see what Draco was up to or anything, he’s not a stalker, Merlin,) when he overheard Blaise Zabini talking to Theodore Nott. 

“... I mean he could have died. I’m acquaintances with Page and he said that Potter looked ready to just let everything end, you know what I mean?” Zabini says. 

“Yeah, Davies told me. It never really sank in until now,” Nott says. 

“I mean, we’re neutral in my family, but this is war, isn’t it?” 

“My dad’s about as far out of neutral as you can go. But I was thinking, the pressure on Harry, at fifteen years old, to take down the Dark Lord? That’s too much. All our parents, well not your mother really, but you know what I mean, all of them were branded like property and made helpless, and Potter’s supposed to stand up to the darkest wizard of our time and take Him down when even Dumbledore couldn’t manage? It’s ridiculous.”

“Dumbledore’s always been a bit barmy.” 

“It’s no surprise that Potter’s cracking really, it just made me realize that these lines we’ve drawn for ourselves, they’re going to matter. People are going to die. If Grant hadn’t been there, and Potter had jumped, I think that’s already a casualty of war. And fuck, I don’t like Potter, but I don’t want him to  _ die. _ ” 

“Hate to break it to you Nott, but Potter  _ is  _ going to die. He’s 15 years old and he’s going up against the DARK LORD.” 

“He’s done it before and survived.”

“Dumbledore doesn’t want Potter to survive. You are blind if you think he’s being built up to be anything other than a sacrifice.” 

Nott scoffed. “What do you mean? He’s the golden boy! He does no wrong.” 

“Dumbledore was supposed to take Potter to Pomphrey after he was found attempting suicide. He never showed. Page was pissed because you know what happened with his older brother and all, but Dumbledore acted less like he wanted Potter you know, to not be suicidal, and more like he didn’t want Potter to be suicidal  _ yet.  _ I’m telling you, Dumbeldore doesn’t want Potter to survive.” 

“But he hasn’t been raised all this time just to die, has he?”

Zabini’s laugh was frigid and biting. “Dumbledore will do anything for his ‘greater good.’ Potter’s been a prophesied martyr from the get-go. Salazar below, that boy has been given no education at all on how to function as an adult wizard. Why do you think that is?”

Nott was silent for a moment. “I thought because the Potter's were blood traitors, but that's not it, is it? It's because... shit. It's because the teachers have decided he won’t need it.”   
  


“I think so. Only Snape behaves as if Harry will survive. The rest of them … well, I think it’s safe to say that so long as Harry remains in the headmaster’s pocket, he will face death enough times for it to kill him one day. Soon.”

Harry turned away from the dungeons and wandered the halls under his cloak listlessly. The words the Slytherins had spoken felt like the arguments he had with himself, Zabini callously throwing out all of Harry’s worst fears as fact.

_ Dumbledore was rather cavalier about the fact that I was emotionally unstable enough to destroy the castle and then wandlessly and unintentionally apparated to the top of a tower. I could very well be suicidal. He doesn’t care, does he? _

_ … Maybe he just knows me well enough to know I’m fine _

_ …. Am I fine? _

_ …. Am I? …. _

_ …. Are any of us? _

_...Why is me fighting the Dark Lord fine? _

_ When did I become the figurehead of the war? _

_ (Harry Potter’s returned! I’m professor Q-Q-Quirrel s-s-so nice to m-m-meet you Mr. P-P-Potter. He remembers me! Welcome back, Mr. Potter! ~We got Potter, we got Potter~) _

_ … Since I was 14 in the Triwizard tournament? _

_ … Since I was 11 years old? _

_ … Since I was a baby? _

_ Just 15 months old?  _

_ I was given to a family that hates magic. Put somewhere with no one to love me, no adult to look out for me, no one for whom to save my own life. Only endless amounts of gratitude to this magical world that gave me my first (and only) home. Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice _ … 

**I’ve been raised for the slaughter**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fred: So then Harry was screaming  
> George: All high pitched and girl like  
> Fred: And Lockheart thought it was a damsel  
> George: In the throes of anguished distress  
> Fred: So what was a gallant knight like him  
> George: To do but save her with the force of chivalry  
> Fred: Armed with the mightiest of wands  
> George: Aimed with the spirits of the wind  
> Fred: He caught Harry with open arms  
> George: And Harry took one look into Lockheart's eyes  
> Fred: Smiled big and wide  
> George: And found his reason to live.


	12. Comfort me Blondie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Harry burn together, Harry talks to Dumbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovelies. It's been 32k of a slow burn but the burn has arrived and it will be hawt
> 
> Leave a kudos or a comment cuz you can't leave me a cookie, and that's what I really want
> 
> Wash your hands. Be a hero. Save lives. (Check out my other work, "Dripping Fingers." People like it. Chances are you will too)
> 
> I believe in all of you!
> 
> Stay safe

Wandering the dungeons underneath an invisibility cloak, half blind, is perhaps not the safest of pastimes for a supposed suicidal Gryffindor. Half the castle must be looking for him by now, if not the whole entire school.

Harry can’t be bothered to care that people are scared and looking for him. He can’t be bothered to care about  _ anything  _ really. That’s what happens, Harry thinks, when you are betrayed by the people who are supposed to love you. He remembers looking in on Aunt Petunia brushing back the blonde fringe on Dudley’s head as she tucked him in for the night, whispering sweet love laden words into his ear and then the door shutting closed behind her as she looked down on Harry. Her eyes held no love when she looked upon her young nephew, and she would grab him by his wrist, or his neck, or the ear she might have sung lullabies into if she’d ever had a heart large enough for her sister’s son, and she would drag him into the dark and lock him there. She could forget about him easily enough, always seeming to hope that if she just wished hard enough, one day she’d open the cupboard and find only the cleaning supplies. 

The realization that this was his last remaining relative, this was the woman who was supposed to love him unconditionally, it came when Harry was seven. The children in his class were supposed to interview their families and when Harry asked who his family was, Aunt Petunia had said, “they’re dead.” He asked why he was alive and not with them, and she had said, “because they couldn’t even die properly, your parents.” 

Harry had gone to school empty-handed for the report and said that his family was dead. He didn’t add that he was alive because they hadn’t died properly. He felt even then that he knew something about Aunt Petunia’s account of his parents was wrong. His teacher, needless to say, had been aghast. She’d told Harry to stay after class and explained that even though his parents were dead, Aunt Petunia was still his family. He had to write a letter of apology during lunch that day and bring it home to Aunt Petunia. She’d looked at it, sniffed, and claimed, “I’d always known you were ungrateful.” Sitting in the dark of the cupboard that night, Harry had cried as he realized he’d been given to a woman who was a monster (not family) and bound to him through blood. 

Dumbledore’s betrayal felt worse, somehow. Harry wasn’t as mad as he should have been for having been pushed into danger year after year by the man. He knew that the first year obstacle course was engineered for eleven-year-olds and not to keep out dark lords. Harry thought about second year and felt like maybe the basilisk wasn’t too much Dumbeldore’s fault (although as soon as students were petrified he should have closed the school) but third year, well. Dumbledore did not personally help the thirteen-year-olds who were supposed to stay in the hospital wing, instead, he misused an illegal time device to let them go off unaccompanied and traumatized, forcing a little boy to deal with a horde of (at least 100) dementors  _ on his own.  _ That is not responsible teaching. And fourth year, last year, was unforgivable. How did Dumbledore fail to recognize that his “long time friend,” was not his friend?  _ Someone who cares very little about people other than himself, that’s who. _

Why not shut down the tournament when clearly something wicked was afoot? Why not tell Harry to not even try, just sit in a safe space during the tasks and wait for everything to be over? There was no reason to compete in earnest, he was TOO YOUNG. And then Cedric died. Cedric died. A person died. And Dumbledore, he cared more about the Dark Lord’s return than Harry’s injuries (he had been crucioed at 14) or his trauma (he had just seen someone murdered in front of his eyes.) He was questioned before getting medical treatment, he was sent home to an abusive environment (because it is abuse, it is, it is not normal) and he was given no support. 

And as bad as all of that is, Harry is most angry because Dumbledore gave him to the Dursleys  _ on purpose.  _ To make him borderline suicidal. To make it so that Harry would risk himself time and time again. Because growing up with the Dursleys made Harry desperate. He’ll do anything for love. He doesn’t value himself. And he’s played that selfless hero perfectly because Dumbledore was right. He has been molded into the perfect sacrifice. Harry even doesn’t treat school like he’s going to survive. Neither of them ever speak of it, but maybe they both acknowledge deep down that Harry needs to die for the war to be won. 

And the worst part of all of it is that Harry can’t even call Dumbeldore a monster. Harry has saved lives (will save lives) through his selflessness. He is who he is now. If Harry needs to die to save the wizarding world, if Dumbledore tells him when he needs to die, Harry probably will slit his wrists himself. He is a martyr now. He can hate the man who made him into what he has become, but he would die to save this world of magic. ( _ Potter is going to die.) _

_ I wonder if I’ll get to graduate. _

***

Harry saw a flash of blonde hair and moved quickly, grabbing Draco by the collar of his silky shirt and dragging him into an unused corridor. 

Harry pulled off the cloak and pressed Draco into the wall. 

“Potter! What the fu--”

Harry fisted his hands around Draco’s green tie and pulled the Slytherin down by his neck for a kiss. It was messy and harsh, and so, so desperate. At first, Draco did not respond but then his hand came up to cradle Harry’s head and he turned them around so that now Harry’s back was against the wall. Draco’s shoulder pinned Harry back and his mouth was demanding and coaxing. He bit Harry’s bottom lip, ran his tongue over the roof of Harry’s mouth, tugged Harry’s hair at the base of his neck to go deeper, pushing, nipping, groaning … 

Draco slid his leg between Harry’s and rolled his hips and Harry gasped and they moaned in unison. 

When they came up for air, Draco rested his forehead on Harry’s and they breathed together.

“Potter,” he said again, his voice gravelly and deep, “what the fuck?”

Harry was suddenly very aware of their proximity, of the place where Draco’s leg was pressing, of the two shoulders that encased him, of Draco’s forearm resting on the wall by his head. 

“I need someone right now,” Harry said. 

Draco scoffed. “And I’m that someone? Really, Potter? How daft do you think I am?”

Harry swallowed and Draco’s eyes narrowed in on his throat. “No, I just mean, I need someone right now who doesn’t love Dumbledore. Because, because I don’t know what to think and I need to get out of my head.”

Draco moved his lips to Harry’s ear and bit softly. “Harry,” he whispered, “just because I might fancy you, it doesn’t mean I’ll be some warm body whenever you need one.”

Harry shuddered and took a few moments to recognize what Draco said. “N-no, that’s not what I meant. I just need --”

Draco pulled back from Harry’s ear to look down at him in his eyes. “Just need someone. Yes. Someone. Not ‘I need you, Draco.’ What, Potter? Gonna give the poor Slytherin a little taste and leave feeling like he should count himself grateful? I thought you were better than that.”

“That’s not it, Draco,” Harry said. They were still pressed together and Harry reached up to kiss Draco again but he pulled away. 

“Just because I might love someone doesn’t mean I can’t hate them at the same time, Potter. Don’t think you can take advantage of me.”

Harry leaned back and his head thunked against the wall. “Don’t put your feelings for your father onto me.” 

Moving faster than should have been possible, Draco wrapped his fingers around Harry's throat. “Don’t talk to me about my father.” His eyes were cold. 

Harry laid one hand over Draco’s even as he felt his breathing go shallow. “That was my first kiss, did you know that? I wouldn’t do this with just anyone.”

Draco’s hands fell away. “Wouldn’t you?” he said quietly. He looked into Harry’s eyes searching and found something. Then he smiled tentatively. “I guess not, golden boy.” He leaned down and kissed Harry again, lips firm and hot. His tongue ghosted into Harry's mouth. His hands were on Harry’s waist and then his lips trailed down Harry’s jaw and underneath his ear until he was sucking on Harry’s neck. Harry had one hand tracing the muscles on Draco’s back and another running through his hair. 

“Then what’s this about, hmm Potter?” Draco was saying as he deftly undid the top few buttons of Harry’s shirt and began sucking on Harry’s collarbone. “What’s got you all worked up?”

Harry moaned softly. “Ng. Draco…”

One of Draco’s hands slipped underneath Harry’s shirt. “Come on, Harry,” Draco smirked wickedly as he pinched a nipple between two fingers. “I won’t bite.” Draco bit Harry’s bottom lip again. “Much.” 

“Fuck, Draco.” Harry groaned again. “I think I’ve been --”

Draco made an encouraging noise.

“I think I’ve been raised to die.” 

Draco’s hands stilled. “Right.” He said. He pulled the Gryffindor in for a bone-crushing hug and Harry burrowed his face in Draco’s neck. Draco gently stroked his fingers through Harry’s hair. 

“Everyone knows that, Potter,” Draco said. 

Harry bit Draco’s neck in retaliation. “Everyone except me.” He grumbled. 

Draco flicked Harry’s ear. “No biting,” he chided. “That’s my thing.” 

Harry took a shuddering breath and Draco’s hand slipped back under Harry’s shirt to trace his spine. 

“I think Dumbledore left me with the Dursleys so that I would be okay with dying. So that I could die for the cause.” 

Draco’s hand was rather distracting as it began to dip lower and lower on the base of Harry’s spine, skimming the top of his trousers. “And you feel betrayed.”

Harry pressed a kiss to Draco’s sharp jaw. “Yes, exactly.”

Draco nodded. “I get it.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Do you?”

Draco lifted Harry’s chin with one hand and looked into his emerald eyes as though he was precious. He kissed Harry this time soft and sweet and slow. When he pulled away, his thumb ghosted over Harry’s lips. “I’m a Malfoy, Harry. My mum is a Black. Of course I do.”

Harry tightened his arms around Draco as though he was a koala. “What a pair we make.” He said. 

Draco laughed gently. “Is that what we are, Harry? A pair?”

Harry nuzzled into Draco’s chest. “I guess we are, yeah.”

Harry could feel Draco smiling into his neck. “Damn fine pair, then. Fucked up, but damn fine.”

***

When Harry found his way into Dumbledore’s office he was calm. He was angry, bitterly angry, but it was a wave of cold anger. A burning sensation built on ice. Snape had come with him and was sitting beside him, Dumbledore sitting across from them. That felt… right. They were two pawns banded together to challenge their player. Dumbledore seemed different too. His beard had been cut, his half-moon spectacles were full of week-old smudges. He looked eccentric as usual but also tired, far, far more tired. 

Harry spoke first. “When do you need me to die?” 

  
  
The blunt question clearly caught both Snape (who looked murderous) and Dumbledore (who looked thunderstruck) off guard.

Snape said, “You will not die, Harry, I won’t allow it,” even as Dumbledore said, “What do you mean by that, Harry?”

Harry ignored Snape and looked into the baby blues of the Hogwarts Headmaster. “You have pushed me into increasingly dangerous situations my whole life and placed me with an abusive family in order to make me willing to be a martyr. It worked. I just want to know when you need me to die. And why. I deserve that much, at least.” 

Dumbledore looked quite shocked but there was no denial in his eyes. No reflexive, “that’s not what I was trying to do, Harry.” His silence and lack of dismissal were damning, and all three of the people in the office realized it at the same time. 

Snape cleared his throat and looked at the headmaster. “He must have misunderstood something, this idiot boy. You would not have raised him to be a slaughter animal.” Harry knew the potions master well enough by now to realize that the tone was questioning but filled with disbelieving disappointment.

Dumbledore closed his eyes. “I meant to save you from the heartache of this knowledge, Harry, for a little while longer. Could you stomach living in a garden of ignorance until you are ready? This information will not lead you to happiness. At the very least, you deserve a happy childhood.”

Harry shook his head angrily. “At the very least, I deserve to know the truth. None of these riddles and little lies to make me ready to be hurt when you need it. If I’m going to die for the wizarding world, it needs to be my choice, and I need to make it knowing the consequences. It’s not your head on the chopping block, Albus, it’s mine.”

Both Dumbledore and Snape inhaled sharply at Harry’s use of the headmaster’s first name. Eyes wide with disbelief, Dumbledore began to laugh. “And here I thought that you were still a child, Harry. You haven’t been, not for a long time, have you?”

Harry pursed his lips. “When I was five I made dinner for my uncle and his guests, was beaten with a rolling pin after I served the table, and was sent to bed in a locked cupboard without any food. I’m not sure I ever had the chance to be a child.” Dumbledore looked upon Harry sadly. “And I think,” Harry continued, “or rather I know, that it was your fault.” The headmaster flinched. 

“Harry --” He began in a cajoling tone of voice.    


“So I ask again,” Harry said, “why do you need a fucking fifteen year old to die? What could be so important that you’ve been orchestrating my life since I was a baby?” His voice was cold as snow.

Snape finally stood up, looking at Albus Dumbledore angrily. “Have you told him nothing about the prophecy?”

Harry looked at Snape. “What prophecy?”

Dumbledore glared at Snape, “He is not ready!” He hissed. 

“He will never BE ready! The Dark Lord has tried to kill him four times already. What more reason do you need?”

Dumbledore let out a breath. “Leave us, Severus.” 

Snape did not move from where he was standing over the headmaster. “I will not.” 

Dumbledore stood as well. “Might I remind you of the mark on your arm? You cannot have this information. He could see it.”

Snape’s expression did not change. “If he broke into my mind my life is already forfeit. I would die before he learned my secrets.” 

Dumbledore’s expression hardened. “I cannot take that risk.”

Snape’s eyes filled with rage and anguish in equal measure. “I will not leave him!” He shouted, arms gesturing wildly. He took a deep breath, dropped his arms, and his face was once again shuttered. “I left her to you and you let her die. I will not leave Harry.” 

Dumbledore slumped into his chair. “Very well. I had not known you were so fond of him, but very well." He paused. He looked at the boy seated across a table from him. “Tell me, Harry, what do you know about Horcruxes?”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zabini: Draco's fucking Potter  
> Greengrass: It's always fucking Potter  
> Zabini: No  
> Zabini: Draco's FUCKING Potter. As in... sexually  
> Greengrass: They just kissed, Zabini. Second base at most  
> Zabini: How do you know that?  
> Greengrass: Why would I tell you that?  
> Zabini: Because I'm a good boy?  
> Greengrass: Gross. You're certainly not my good boy  
> Zabini: I'm everybody's good boy  
> Greengrass: That's why you're not mine


	13. Storage Unit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbles speaks to the dream team, Hermione talks to the twins, the dream team have a heart to heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks about the long wait between chapters, I'll finish this (it's not abandoned) but I'm on a just slightly more than once a month update schedule now because of work. I'm sorry about this chapter, had a spot of writer's block.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Pinduli because they have commented on all my chapters thus far and that brings me unimaginable joy. Be like Pinduli, leave a comment. 
> 
> Check out my other work, "Dripping Fingers," it's about a Harry Potter with an artistic hobby. (That's the hobby: art.)

Dumbledore’s speaking and Harry’s listening and he’s hearing the harrowing story of an orphan not unlike the little boy who lived under the stairs, but the endings are so very different. He’s learning about a “Magik most foul,” and of splitting one’s soul. The diary from second year and what happened to Ginny Weasley (a memory from fifty years ago) all begin to make sense, like a blurred lens of a camera suddenly snapped into focus. 

There are at least five more Horcruxes that Dumbledore assumes exist. There is a ring, he thinks somewhere. The Gaunt ring. The family ring for the bloodline of Wizards who never claimed their last descendent, the last heir of Slytherin. The headmaster surmises that there are three founder’s objects in Voldemort’s soul collection as well.

“What’s the fifth Horcrux?” Harry asks, no trappings of respect found in his tone, no childlike curiosity hidden in his question. This is war, he thinks, and he’s playing soldier whether he wants to walk into battle or not. 

Dumbledore strokes his beard thoughtfully and murmurs, “I am not certain.”

Harry shakes his head angrily. “Bullshit.” He hisses. “You may not be _certain,_ but you have a guess, don’t you?”

Dumbledore passes a hand over his eyes. “... I have a guess. It is unpleasant and unlikely, but …”

Harry is silent and Snape next to him is a solid presence, warm, grounding, and firm. Harry closes his eyes and thinks of that moment in Potions class when Snape said he was trying a practical approach and gave him a detention for a thumb’s up, but knew -- or wanted, maybe, to spend time with the Gryffindor. He thinks of Snape’s arms around his shoulder saying, “I have an insignificant whelp to help me,” and it’s enough. The stag erupts in Harry’s mind and he can think clearly again, the harmony of thousands of voices singing in his ears and wrapping his numb body in a blanket of warmth. He sees the ghost of silver antlers and hears echoes of hoofbeats timed to drum with his heart. 

“It’s me, isn’t it?” He says in a voice filled with calm. There is sadness there too, and … resignation. “That’s why I need to die.” 

Harry looks at Dumbledore’s eyes and he can see a myriad of emotions pass through those blue pools: fear, shock, anger, sadness, something not unlike love, and a fierce moment of pride. 

Dumbledore opens his mouth and seems to lose his words on the breeze. He closes it and then softly inclines his head. 

Harry reaches a hand to trace his scar and says, “when I got this, right?” even as Snape abruptly slams his hands down on Dumbledore’s desk and causes it to instantly catch fire. Dumbeldore blinks rapidly. 

“You absolute fool!” Snape seethes, “Have you tried at all to think of another way? Have you consulted all leading authorities on soul magic? Are you absolutely certain, beyond even one grain of doubt, that he cannot be saved?” Snape’s voice drops to the sharp and biting timber Harry remembers so clearly from the days Snape terrorized his students. “Or have you, old man,” his voice is dripping with vitriol, “decided to play God again? I know what you are. You haven’t tried at all to save Harry, have you? Just taken a vulnerable child and shaped him into what you need, all because what, you couldn’t have taken care of all the children you've failed? Can’t bear to face the possibility that he might not have needed to die given the childhood you forced him to endure? Did you look at that scar when he was a baby and think, ‘he survived the killing curse, most unnatural, he is already marked for death,’ and then stopped caring? Did he become a tool for you before he spoke his first words? Is that what happened?”

“I think you and I both know I never stopped caring, Severus.” Dumbledore’s voice is low and quiet. The desk around him is slowly burning to ash. 

“But did you?” Harry asks. “Have you looked into ways that I could, that I wouldn’t -- where I wouldn’t have to die?”

Dumbledore looks beaten and worn down. “I have… given it considerable thought. There is a high chance you would survive another encounter with the killing curse given your selfless spirit and the power of --”

Snape wandlessly silences the headmaster. “So help me, if you say the power of love when that was what killed Lily, I will take Harry and leave this war behind.” 

Dumbledore cancels Snape’s charm. “He would not go with you.” He says with conviction. 

“So that’s a no,” Harry remarks.

“What is?” Dumbledore asked seated now in front of a pile of burned wood. 

“You haven’t tried to think of any other solutions for the fact that I’m apparently a Horcrux.” He notes in a thoughtful tone. “You just… mourned me. You’ve mourned for me all this time, I think.” Dumbledore’s eyes are glassy and he once more softly inclines his head.

“You must understand, Harry. If times were different, I would have, well, I watched you when you were a baby, did you know that? I might have given you chocolates for Christmas and sent you cards for your birthday. You would have been a boy, Harry. Just a boy.”

“I was just a boy,” Harry says wistfully. “Just a boy who got an invisibility cloak for his eleventh birthday and was sent to become involved in a death trap.” Harry nods once, firmly, and grabs Snape’s hand. “We’re going now, Albus. Thank you for the tea.” 

Harry drags Snape from the office even as they hear the headmaster sigh softly. “Until the end, you will always be welcome here, my boys.” It is quiet for a moment, and then Dumbledore laughs a little hysterically. “Though, I suppose after Severus’ accidental magic, it will be with a new desk.”

One portrait guffaws and another coos, “Oh, you poor thing. Even I could tell the arson was on purpose.” 

The gargoyles let the office door swing shut.

***

Hermione has been on a mission for the last several weeks involving two identical red-haired boys. The mission: avoid pranks. Her current success rate: 47/47. She has been one hundred percent successful in her mission.

Ron has also been on a mission for the last several weeks. It involves one (unusually attractive) witch with bushy brown hair. His mission: avoid Hermione whenever the twins attempt a prank. His current success rate is 29/47. He can’t really calculate the percentage but that’s not his fault; he’s never taken arithmancy. 

Ron has spent the last few weeks sporadically covered in odd patches of color, with enlarged limbs, or with otherwise unusual characteristics given to him by his older brothers. They always say, “Ron-Ron, we weren’t aiming for _you,_ ” when he looks particularly agitated, but then again, he knows that they know that he knows they’re lying. They are his brothers, after all. He knows that even if they would rather prank Hermione, he is a close second. (He’s never forgiven them for the spiders that haunt his childhood.)

Ginny’s been no help at all; she likes seeing Ron in odd colors almost as much as Fred and George enjoy his discomfort, and he’s pretty sure she's helped them make some of their more inventive hexes. Hermione has been livid with their snack box sales because she still hasn’t figured out where they store their supply, and she’s a prefect. 

It’s not right, Ron,” She yells, sitting on the common room floor after one particularly prolific day of students developing dangerous fevers or bleeding out of both nostrils. 

Ron leans against a wall. “They’re going to get rich off it though, I bet. I reckon mum will come ‘round once she sees how successful they’ll be.”

“And that’s great, really great, they deserve to be happy and wealthy and all that, but this is just -- it’s a mockery of school and rules, that’s what it is. They are illegally distributing untested items to minors at a price. They need licenses they don’t have, waivers from parents they have not requested, and furthermore, they are disrupting the learning environment of impressionable youths.”

There is an indignant yelp and a pale hand materializes in front of her face. Hermione, unphased, utters, “incarcerous,” and both Weasley twins pop into view hung up like odd tapestries suspended from the ceiling. 

“Weasley’s one and two, how kind of you to join us,” she states. 

Fred and George grin at one another and start trying to fish out their wands, at which point Hermione rolls her eyes and says, “Accio Fred’s wand, accio George’s wand,” and lifts up one palm as two sticks come hurtling towards the outstretched appendage and collide into her closing fist with a satisfying ‘thwak.’

Fred sighs, “she’s got us now.”

George sighs as well, “whatever shall we do?”

Fred winks. “You know what this is?”

George smirks. “I think I do.”

“It’s hocus,”

“Pocus,”

“More kiss,”

“Less hiss,”

“Voldy,”

“Woldy,”

“Hogy”

“Warty”

“Warts,”

“Time!”

A small vial appears in George’s left hand and a miniature knife appears in Fred’s. George drops the vial which causes a great big pink smokescreen to materialize in front of Hermione in the shape of one Dolores Umbridge, and in the confusion, Fred saws both him and his twin free. 

As Hermione dispels the smoke, Fred and George re-summon their wands. Hermione is breathing heavily but her eyes are alight with wonder. 

“What was that?” She asks breathily.

“A prank, dear Hermione,” the twins crow together, “did you like it?”

Ron is slowly inching his way down the wall to avoid Hermione’s ensuing wrath. Hermione, however, does not get angry. (Perhaps she is unaware that all her clothing has turned pink and she has no less than thirty fuchsia bows in her hair.) Instead, she throws her head back and laughs in a relieved kind of way.

“No, I mean, that summoning charm you did at the end. The ‘hocus pocus’ mumbo jumbo.”

The twins roll their eyes. “We’re going to pretend you didn’t make light of our brilliant charm.”

Hermione nods emphatically. “No, I would never make fun of such a good charm. But what is it, how does it work?”

Fred and George exchanged glances. “Well you see,” George begins,

“If we was to tell you,” Fred continues,

“We’d need immunity,” they finish together. “Trade secret and all that.”

Hermione hesitates briefly and then her eyes fill with resolve. “I understand. I will not use any of the information I learn against you. Please, please tell me.”

Fred and George shrug. “It’s a specialized summoning spell linked to an ancient trunk we bought years ago. We dug out the old thing, used an expanding charm, warded the shit, I mean, warded the life out of it, and then filled it to the brim with all our inventions.” Fred explains. 

“Then we used a specific space rune to make the trunk a kind of pocket dimension with a lock and the ‘inmente transfero’ charm to keyword all the items inside said dimension so that we can retrieve items from it anytime we want with no wands, only our words, and intent.” George finishes. They spread their hands and fall into smug poses.

Hermione had opened her journal and was writing everything down, mouthing along with their explanation and making her own notes. 

  
“Oh, that’s brilliant. I bet you could even use a mokeskin bag and do the same thing. I bet you could get multiple receptacles and if you used the triangular rune combination you could link them all to the same inmente transfero charm and keywords.” She says. 

Fred and George look at her wearily. “..Yeah. You could.” 

Hermione goes to brush back her hair, a habit, before her hands come into contact with some satin. Just as she summons a mirror, Fred and George speak up.

“What do you need to know this for, anyway? You’re not trying to open a shop or sell anything to students.” They ask. They then realize that Hermione is now looking at the aftermath of their prank in all its glory and as she banishes the mirror, the smile she gives them is absolutely chilling. 

“Oh, didn’t Ron tell you?” She inquires with faux-sweetness made all the worse by her Dumbridge ensemble. 

George gulps. “Tell us what?”

  
Hermione twirls one of her curls around a finger. “I need a place to store some things I’ve been making quite a lot of. I need a storage location from which they can be summoned at a moment’s notice, with or without access to a wand.”

Fred gulps. “What -- what do you need to store?”

Hermione stares them both right in their eyes. Her lips stretch out around her teeth. “Guns,” She says. “I need to store about three hundred guns.”

***

As soon as Harry is out of Dumbledore’s office, he slides down the wall and places his head on his knees. Snape slides down beside him. 

“My knees are getting too old for this, you know.” He remarks. 

Harry looks up and laughs weakly. “You’d think that maybe you’re getting too old for all this spy business too.”

Snape grins. “Oh no, once a spy, always a spy. I’ll be creating information networks and bamboozling the masses until my dying days.” 

Harry flinches at the words, ‘dying days,’ and Snape inwardly curses. 

“I’m only fifteen.” He says. 

Snape gently wraps his arm around Harry’s boney shoulder and the boy curls against his side. 

“I know.” He murmurs. “I know you are.”

Harry is shaking. “I know I have to, but I -- I don’t want to die. Not yet. Not before I’ve lived.”

Snape presses his lips to Harry’s temple. “I don’t want you to die either.”

Harry sniffles. “Some hero I am, getting all emotional over something that hasn’t even happened yet.”

Snape brushes his hand through Harry’s hair and hums his assent. “You are the most genuine hero the world has ever known.”

Harry curls impossibly smaller. “I’m not a hero at all, never have been, never will be.”

Snape tugs harshly at Harry’s hair and the Gryffindor yells, “ouch.”

“You are a hero, Harry Potter,” Snape asserts. “You’ve saved the lives of everyone in this school at least twice. You’ve done more than enough, more than anyone really in this war, and you are, as you say, only fifteen. You can be done now, Harry. I was not lying to the headmaster. Say the words and I will fake your death and bring you to another country and you can live your life happy, healthy, and safe from a war that should have never been your burden.”

Harry wipes away a tear angrily. “You know I can’t do that, right? You know I have to try and save them all again, no matter the price?” His voice is very quiet.

Snape leans back and lets his head hit the wall. “Yes.” He says, lips curling, “I have always known you to be insufferably noble and I had no real perception that such an innate failing of your person would change despite the news of your orchestrated sacrifice.” 

Snape squeezes Harry’s shoulders. “But you know, Harry,” he declares, “I will ensure that you do not die a martyr but are born again as a legend. I won’t let you die, if not physically, then at least in memory.”

Harry looks up at Snape with red-rimmed eyes. “Why do you care so much?” He asks. “You’re not my father.”

Snape looks down at Harry and without thinking too much on his action, leans forward and fully embraces the boy. Harry’s arms come up to clasp Snape’s back and they cling to each other, almost desperately. 

“I know very well that I am not James Potter, no matter how much I hated him, and no matter how much I wanted everything he possessed,” Snape whispers. “I may not be your father, Harry,” his voice is gaining volume and power, “but I am the closest person to one you have." Snape kisses the top of Harry’s head. "I'm the closest one you have."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco: Mother?  
> Narcissa: Yes dear?  
> Draco: What's a gun?  
> Narcissa: Something muggle, darling.  
> Draco: Is it a very dangerous item, a gun?  
> Narcissa: No darling. Muggles can't make anything dangerous, you should know that.  
> *******  
> Kreacher: Master Potter's mudblood says to be collecting the little balls of metal, says to be kept in safe place, says they are precious  
> Golem: Precious?  
> (Is it just me or does Golem look a lot like a house-elf? What if the ring was the Gaunt ring? What if that's why it was the 'ring to rule them all?' Because, you know, it was a hallow.)  
> Kreacher: Golem is bad house elf. Stealing Master's ring.


	14. Candor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Mold the Vort and Potterhead have a chat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello amazing, dignified people. The end is nigh.  
> Leave a comment I do so implore you.  
> Check out my other fic, "Dripping Fingers," if you have not already. It's growing in popularity faster than this gem here, my first ever fanfic.  
> Speaking of, there are only three chapters left!  
> Stay safe and leave kudos and comments (I've asked twice so you know it's important)

It starts as a whisper, soft words caressing his mind in gentle waves, quiet murmurs echoing in his dreams. 

_ Harry.  _ (That’s me.) 

_ Harry.  _ (I’m here.) 

_ Harry, are you a coward? Are you?  _ (I try not to be.)

_ Harry, you know where you must go. You know… Don’t you, Harry?  _ (Where?)

_ Harry, you do not want more people to die for you, do you?  _ (Where do I need to … oh… )

He sees it then, a long room with winding corridors, twisting and writhing like snakes, scales made of little orbs that adorned shelves and doors leading to a crypt for the recorded knowledge of tomorrow. 

Dark amusement twists inside Harry’s heart, and he knows that despite the man giving him this dream,  _ forcing  _ him to live this dream, that blackened emotion of bitter humor comes from  _ himself _ and not the monster that calls itself a lord. 

Harry knows he can call forth his Patronus and leave this landscape behind. He can get on the back of his silver stag and ride away into the world of fantasy before he wakes. But he’s angry, and he’s a Gryffindor, and for once he feels like he’s earned the right to be reckless, and fearless and… selfish. He deserves to be selfish now, if only just this once. 

So Harry opens his ears to hear the hum of connection (like off-key bees buzzing out a grating melody) that spreads between he and Voldemort, and he tethers himself to the thread of the chorus line, pounding out his own anguished harmony. 

He materializes in the center of the room wearing his Hogwarts robes even as Voldemort stumbles a landing, appearing in all his bald glory with eyes flashing the color of rusted blood. 

“You called?” Harry inquires in a bored tone. 

Voldemort looks at him with a kind of morbid fascination, evidently not having intended to end up inside his message speaking to the bane of his existence. 

“You are asleep, Potter.” Is the emotionless response he gets. 

Harry snorts. “Evidently. My question though is: why are _you_ **_in_** my dream? You’re a little old for me.”

Voldemort’s eyes flash and his hand goes to where his wand would have been had he been awake.  _ But this is my dream world, isn’t it, Voldyshorts? I get to choose what kind of power you have when you come to play in  _ **_my_ ** _ mind. And that’s  _ nothing _ , because you are nothing to me.  _

“Such disrespect,” Voldemort tuts. “Your parents would have been ashamed.” 

Harry can’t help but wonder if this was how Voldemort had gotten Crouch. Told him that his father would have been disappointed and then spread his arms and claimed, “But I will care for you even when he cannot.”  _ He breaks people down so that he can either stomp on them like little ants or string them up as puppets on marionette strings. _

“Ehh, hard to know really. They are dead, you know.” Harry says with a forced nonchalance and then adds, “Your fault, by the way.” 

Voldemort’s eyes go and trace the path of Harry’s scar. “And here I stand before you to soon finish the job.”

Harry gives the man a taunting smile. “You know most jobs would fire someone for missing the deadline by, I don’t know, about fifteen years.” He shruggs. “But if you want to stay employed as my favorite psychopath turned personal trainer, be my honored guest.” 

_ Heh. Jokes on you, Mold the Vort. You spent all this time trying to kill me but you’ve trained me to fight you better than if you’d have just left me alone. Karma. _

Voldemort hisses with something that resembles laughter. “You speak with such brave words, little boy, but I can smell your fear of me and your resignation for your death. You know that you will lose already.” The man breathes in for a long moment, forked tongue flickering as it tastes the air. “Your desolation is  _ delicious. _ I look forward to the day I hang your limp body on the castle walls and watch as your precious friends and beloved mentors see their golden boy grey with death.” 

Harry moves to hold one of the orbs in his palm as Voldemort monologues.  _ My death brings about yours, you utter wanker. Display your own downfall to the world, will you? _

“I like your decoration plans. Always nice to know that you’ll be supporting public works when you take over.”    
  


There is a moment of tense silence while Voldemort looks over Harry appraisingly. “You’ve changed since last year, Potter.” He notes, long bony fingers steepling together in a grotesque imitation of prayer.

Harry shudders at the reminder of Cedric’s death and can tell that the Dark Lord notices. “The smell of the cauldron was traumatic. Stuff of nightmares, watching a naked man emerge from the sludge, anatomically incorrect, may I add, looking like a muggle doll but without the good looks. Anyone would have changed. How is Peter, by the way? Missing his arm?” And if that’s something that fills Harry with a sort of grim satisfaction, Dumbledore has no moral high ground from which to judge him. Snape, he thinks, would share any sentiments of ill-will toward the rat on principle. 

Voldemort laughs that high, cold laugh, that Harry hears whenever he’s in the presence of a dementor. “It was the death of the boy, wasn’t it, Potter?” He muses. “Oh, you are not so very concerned by threats to you, but against those you care for…” He trails off. “Well,” he continues, “I suppose I’ll let you watch as I gut your precious godfather, I quite detested the implication that anyone so uninspired could be my second-in-command. And then I’ll tear your little mudblood to shreds and use her blood to water my gardens because that’s all it’s good for, and then you can sit amongst the flowers fed by her corpse as I take everyone you love away and after you’ve long since been begging for death, I will grant it to you, and you will thank me for my mercy.” The man’s voice holds a cruel promise, cold and unyielding. 

Harry starts to summon a happy memory, but keeps his eyes open to avoid giving anything away. “You touch one hair --” He pauses as he sees Voldemort’s triumphant grin,  _ this is what he wants, for me to prove my weakness so publicly to him  _ and collects himself, abruptly. “And I’d be utterly impressed. Whenever someone plays with my hair, they always end up with at least three strands. So if you could manage to touch just one hair on their heads, that would be uncharastically tender of you.” 

He tries not to let it show how much Voldemort’s threats affected him. How he’s going to need to make sure Hermione is alright as soon as he’s awake, make sure that Sirius is still as sane as he can be in Grimmauld. 

Voldemort smiles like he knows the fear is there anyway, and says, “You cannot avoid me forever. We will meet soon, Potter.”

And finally, finally, Harry can feel the Patronus begin to form.  _ ‘Happy Birthday,’ Candles drawn in soot, and ‘Yer a wizard,”and a cake that’s been sat on but it’s his, it’s his, and it’s more than dust for the first time and …  _ “Then I guess,” Harry replies, “Until we meet again.”   


And he pulls with all his mind at the connection of his thrumming harmony from the grating chorus line, allowing himself to fall backwards onto the warm flank of his spirit stag and as the silver envelops his tired mind, he gets to see the Dark Lord’s face slack with shock, eyes still full of some equation Harry knows he won’t like the answer to. 

He wakes up warm and afraid.

***

It’s the middle afternoon which is surprising, but Harry supposes that the whole, “yeah, you need to die for the wizarding world because you’ve been carrying around unadulteratedly evil soul bits your whole life,” is enough to tire anyone out. He’s still wrapping his head around the whole thing if he’s being honest.

The late afternoon sun comes through the drapes in the Gryffindor dormitory, causing the red velvet four-poster curtains to form striking silhouettes against the fiery orange light. Harry’s mouth feels dry and scratchy and his hands are itching to hold onto something,  _ anything,  _ but his legs feel weak and he resigns himself to sitting for a moment longer on the crumpled sheets. 

Seamus is in the room also, his quill scratching away at the parchment for one assignment or another, and yet one eye is clearly saved for the tired boy on the bed opposite to his, which Harry attributes of course to the mistaken and persistent idea that he is a danger to himself.

_ Well I’m not,  _ he thinks rather crossly.  _ Not yet, at any rate.  _ And then he considers how odd it is that Ron is not the person standing vigil over him. 

_ Huh.  _

He’s about to ask Seamus about where Ron is, and if he’s with Hermione, when a hesitant knock sounds at the door. 

“Come in, yeah?” Seamus calls. 

The door opens slowly, revealing a very small Dennis Creevey. His face is bright red and he’s so young it almost hurts. 

“Erm, Mr. Potter?” He whispers. 

Harry gives the boy a gentle smile. “You can call me Harry, if you’d like.”

The boy gives a jerky nod. “O -- Okay. It’s, em, em, dracomalfoyisheretoseeyouandhesaidhewon’tleaveuntilhedoesandhesaidthatyouwanttoseehimtooandnowpeoplearegettingalittlemadathimbecausehe’sblockingtheenetrance.” He says it all in one breath, talking quickly and words jumbling together and then seeming inordinately relieved when the whole thing is done.

Seamus pauses his quill above his parchment long enough for a single drop of ink to splatter before he says, “Yeah, tell slimy snake trust-fund that our golden boy has no need for him. He can just slither off to the dungeons for all we care.”

Dennis’ shoulders relax. “See, that’s what I thought. I knew there was no way Malfoy had anything nice to do with Mr. Potter, er Harry, but he seemed so sure, so…” 

Harry stands up with a sigh. “No, he’s got it right. If he wants to see me, I want to see him.”

  
Seamus and Dennis look at him with comically similar expressions of shock. 

Seamus shakes his head as though his ears are blocked with water. “Is he blackmailing you, Harry?”   
  


“Um, no?”

“Is that a question? Do you need help? I can help you Harry, I can, I know you’re closer with Ron and I’ve been a right git sometimes, but I’m here for you man, and you don’t need to do this alone. Whatever he has on you --”

Harry cuts the tirade off with a muttered, “is not his lips which are currently the only thing I’d like for him to have on me,” only he doesn’t manage to say it quietly enough and Dennis squeaks and his ears turn pink and Seamus is shocked silent for a blessed, blessed moment.

“I’m sorry, I must’ve heard you wrong, WUT?” He demands. 

Harry gives a half-hearted shrug. “Thanks for looking out for me, both of you, but I’d best get down to the pampered ass or he’ll traumatize more of the little ones.” 

Seamus was still sitting with his quill dripping all over his parchment. He might need to start over. “I’m sorry, WUT?”

“You heard me,” Harry sighed. Seamus appeared to be in a semi-catatonic state. The ‘chosen-one’ looked at Dennis. “Let’s go to the Slytherin Princess, alright?”

Dennis bobbed his head. “I can do that.” 

The shorter boy lead Harry out of the dormitory and into the common room where indeed, a large group of Gryffindors had assembled and were shouting out the portrait hole, “he doesn’t want you here,” and, “haven’t you done enough,” and -- this one he didn’t much care for -- “Harry is  _ fragile  _ right now, leave him alone!”

Harry pushes through the throng with only mild annoyance at how few of them seemed to realize who was doing the pushing (it’s not his fault he’s short) and made his way to the opening where he saw Draco lounging against the wall looking both disdainful and sinfully attractive. 

His green trimmed sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his blonde hair framed his face with gentle wisps, and his grey eyes were positively sparkling in the dying glow of one of the fires. 

Harry stepped out into the corridor even as the volume of protests grew.

“So he’s not wrong,” Harry consoles the irate horde, “I do actually want to see him.”

Draco smirks with all the condescension he can muster, which happens to be quite a lot. “Naturally.” He says. 

Neville steps out of the hole to lay a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You sure you’re alright?” He asks very quietly. 

Harry gives him a reassuring smile. “Very much so.” 

Draco looks Harry up and down. “Well, you look awful, but it’ll have to do.” He grabs Harry’s hand. 

Someone gasps. Another person shouts, “Don’t touch him.”

Harry whispers, “Or touch me all you like, if I can say anything about it.”

Neville is close enough to hear the exchange and he narrows his eyes. “Harry,” he says urgently, “you haven’t drunken anything that smelled  _ very  _ good to you recently, have you? Smelled like all your favorite things, maybe?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Yes, Neville. I gave Potter here amortentia for all my nefarious plots because heaven help us all if he actually cared about me of his own volition.”

Harry swatted Draco on the back of his neck. “Thanks for checking in, but I’m not under any compulsions at the moment.”

Neville lets his hand drop but he still watches Harry closely. Someone in the back whispers, “wait, is Draco holding Harry’s hand?” 

Draco gives Neville a reassuring smile. “I’ll take care of him, don’t worry.” 

A look of surprise flashes across the Gryffindor’s face, and then he presses his lips into a thin line and promises, “I’ll hold you to that.”

Draco inclines his head. “See that you do.” He gives Harry’s palm a squeeze.

They walk away like that, hands still intertwined, the rumor mill growing ever louder in the stone inlaid halls.

***

Draco takes him into an abandoned classroom and moves to stand with his arms crossed and Harry tries not to tug one his hands back for more contact.

“Spill, Potter,” Draco commands.

Harry sways his hips slightly. “So I’m Potter now, am I?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Why have you been missing in action for a day and a half?”   
  


Harry coughs out, “Stalker.”    
  
Draco stalks forward and crowds Harry into a dilapidated desk. There are particles of dust catching stray bits of light floating in the air. Chairs are turned on their sides and one has stuffing spilling out like a gutted augury. 

“Is that so,” he drawls, hands gripping the sides of the desk so that his arms cage the green-eyed boy. “And here I thought I was just being an attentive partner.” 

Harry laughs breathlessly. “You can be both.”

He looks up and sees an expression of such exasperated fondness he can’t help but surge forwards and press his lips to Draco’s. Hands come to cradle his face and suddenly everywhere is one fire. One of Draco’s palm is pressing into the small of Harry’s back, forcing him to arch up as the other hand gently holds his chin, and Draco’s tongue is trailing across the roof of Harry’s mouth and he tastes like chocolate oranges and ---

A female voice calls out teasingly, “Well this is certainly a surprise.”

Draco closes his eyes and releases a breath. He separates a minimal distance from Harry so that they no longer have their tongues down each other’s throats, and grabs Harry’s shoulders and tugs so that Harry’s back is pressed against Draco’s chest rather tightly. He sees a blonde Slytherin girl standing (Daphne Greengrass, he thinks) flanked by Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini. They are all wearing identical expressions of disgusted delight. 

“It’s been a long time coming,” Nott says.

Zabini salutes Draco. “Congratulations,” he says solemnly. 

Draco’s arms tighten around Harry. “What do you want?” He asks coldly. 

Greengrass raises a brow. “With you?” She giggles in a tinkling kind of a way. It shouldn’t sound so threatening and yet … “Nothing.” 

Zabini looks Harry in the eyes. “We’re here for you, actually.” 

Draco’s arms are shaking. “Leave him out of it, I’ll invoke the rights of --”   
  


Nott rolls his eyes. “We want in your defense group, Potter. None of us want to be death-eaters so we’re going to be bigger targets than your golden group. Shame of the family and all that. We need help and you’re the best.” He pauses for a beat. “Please.”

Harry is already nodding before the speech is done. They seem legitimate, but even if they’re going to stab him in the back, lives saved are lives saved. Harry’s not teaching anyone how to kill. 

“Of course. You can tell Hermione I’ve given you the go-ahead. She has a vow you need to take and then you’ll be all set.”

Zabini and Greengrass share a look. “You have a vow for all members?” He clarifies.

Harry nestles himself more firmly into Draco. “Of course. Just because we’re Gryffindors doesn't mean we’re stupid.”

Nott gave Harry a wry smile. “Clearly not, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

Draco shifts behind Harry. “And I’m going to formally request that you leave here, because Harry and I have unfinished business.”

Greengrass snickers. “I’m sure that you do. It’s always so  _ uncomfortable  _ when you don’t finish, isn’t it, Blaise?”

Blaise winks somewhat salaciously at the blonde girl. “Oh, it can have its uses.”

As they exit the classroom, Nott calls out, “Ward the door next time!” It is good advice.

So Harry and Draco ward the hell out of the door, and then the walls and then even the ceiling. Not a sound can get out, not a lifeform can get in. It’s just the two of them, in this oversized abandoned classroom itching to be filled with life.

Draco is staring at Harry with something intense and heated. 

Harry spreads his arms out in an invitation and says, “How do you want me?”

He thinks he might hear, “forever,” before his lips are being crushed and his body catches flame. Forever is a long time.

_ You’re kissing someone sentenced to death.  _ But right now, when he’s been drawn into Draco’s lap and they’re breathing the same air, all Harry can think is,  _ this is what it means to be alive. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upon seeing the now heavily warded room  
> Nott: What do you think they're doing in there?  
> Zabini: What do you THINK?  
> Greengrass. I bet it's rather "hole-some."  
> Zabini: ...  
> Greengrass: Get it?  
> Nott: No.  
> Zabini ... Yes.  
> *from out of nowhere,* Luna: Holes is a lovely muggle book  
> Greengrass: ... Yeah, let's go with that.


	15. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco become a known thing. Voldy gives Harry anxiety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, remember when I said I might make some other works in this series? I might, but they will be one-shots in the universe if people want them. Otherwise, the end will be the end. 
> 
> I needed another chapter, so I made another one! There are still two left. It's been a while, but here's this chapter, so there! 
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading, and remember to leave a comment. Check out Dripping Fingers, my other work, if you haven't already.

Harry’s dreams were haunting him, but sometimes he wanted the fear that made him tear out tufts of hair in his early morning showers. He took them to wash the scent of a decaying monster off his red-rubbed skin. He watched his matted black hair swirl down the drain and sometimes wished he could follow.

Voldemort wanted Harry to be afraid, like some kind of dementor he  _ thrived  _ off Harry’s anguish, but Harry found he didn’t mind so much. He didn’t want to summon his Patronus every night to avoid the dreamscape torture -- to unsee the solitary winding corridors with futures written on the walls. 

Maybe it was because if he had to die for holding the soul of someone else, he wanted to know whose soul he held. Maybe it was because, in those moments of darkness and sleep, he felt like he could feel the echo of something, some long-forgotten connection that allowed him to finally feel like he wasn’t being  _ denied _ . The knowledge that he was on borrowed time from an accident that wasn’t even his fault… it felt so similar to the shame he carried around as a little boy with blooming bruises and taped together glasses; he was a little boy full of shame for having held the  _ audacity  _ to survive. 

He wondered sometimes if that was part of it too… if he hurt enough while he was still living maybe death wouldn’t be so bad, maybe it would just be the rest he’d been so desperately craving since before he could even remember. 

So he left the door between his mind and Voldemort’s wide-open, sinking deeper and deeper down into a trap laid to ensnare him, wondering if he could waltz right in and just let himself fall, fall until there was nothing left but broken glasses and the empty condolences spoken in hushed whispers from people who never knew him. 

But when Voldemort tried to push beyond Harry's dreams, to see the boy's waking moments, Prongs reared his proud head, silver mist forcing the monster back to his prison.  _ This is my mind,  _ Harry would think,  _ You don’t get to see  _ **_anything_ ** **.**

If the dark smudges under his eyes grew -- well that was to be expected, wasn’t it? The whole school already thought he was a danger to himself. Ron and Hermione had been doing something… something dangerous most likely and that he wouldn’t approve of, but now they both found a deep and pressing need to be around him  _ all  _ the time. 

The whole school had begun to treat him as though he was fragile glass in danger of imminent shattering. All the professors assigned less homework and created extra study halls for the end of year exams. (Only Binns was unbothered.)

Snape was watching Harry like a hawk, sending him notes with unassuming owls during breakfast to eat something, potions at lunch to make him hungry, nutrition supplements at dinner to make sure he was healthy enough.

Hermione had a new habit of grasping his hands and rolling them over to look at his wrists. She’d sometimes do a non-verbal glamour notifier spell to make sure he wasn’t hiding anything. He wasn’t supposed to be able to tell but the spell had a hum to it, like all magic, and he was beginning to be able to hear the different melodies. She’d run her hands over his pulse point over and over, as if reassuring herself that he was still alive. I think she could tell the question in his eyes,  _ how long?  _ (Ron and Hermione had not taken the news of his being a Horcrux well at all. Ron decided he hated Dumbledore, and Hermione's been searching non-stop for a way out.)

Draco held him, the nights he couldn’t sleep. He held him with arms that were unfairly (and quite attractively strong) as he raged against his mind and his body, trapped his bony wrists to keep him from tearing out more of his hair, crushed his body against a toned chest and reminded him to  _ breathe, Harry. It will be so much easier if you can just breathe for me.  _

_ *** _

Hogwarts reacted… strangely to the news of Draco and Harry dating. Draco had, unprompted, arrived one morning to the Gryffindor table in the great hall during breakfast. Harry’d been pushing eggs around his plate for the better part of half an hour. Draco had walked right over to the shorter boy and demanded, “stand up for a moment,” without regard for the wide-eyed stares of the entire room.

Harry, still waking up and lost in his own mind, had done so without question. Draco sat down in the space that had been vacated, and then promptly pulled the Gryffindor into his lap. Lavender Brown dropped her teacup and from somewhere on the Slytherin table, Pansy Parkinson shrieked.

With forced casualty, Draco took Harry’s fork and scooped up a bit of eggs, lifting them to Harry’s mouth. The boy opened and swallowed without any fuss, so Draco continued to feed him. “You need to eat more.” He’d chided. 

Fred and George had begun to grow red in the face and Ron looked like smoke was erupting from his ears. 

Harry had murmured, “Oh, is that what you think?” before turning his face to catch the corner of Draco’s lips in a kiss. 

The hall went silent for a minute, as everyone processed what they were witnessing. 

“HARRY!” Ron broke out of the reverie first. “Get away from him!” (To whom he was speaking was unclear.)

Hermione had calmly taken a sip out of her cup and remarked, “Awfully brazen of you, Draco. Wasn’t expecting that.”

Draco had smirked and said, “He needed to eat, didn’t he?”

Harry grumbled, “I can take care of myself, thanks,” while Seamus and Neville sighed in unison over the whole affair. 

Ron was ranting at that point, “-- evil, slimy git, not one who hasn’t gone bad and you know his father would kill you and he’ll probably try too and this is why you’ve been so unhappy recently I just know it, because you know when you’re a MALFOY you only ever see yourself. And I bet the whole getting into the DA was just a ploy for the rest of the house to get you too--” 

A very annoyed Daphne Greengrass silently jinxed Ron by turning his hair blue, and Blaise gave her a gentle smile. Milicent Bulstrode took the moment to kiss Tracey Davis, and the smaller girl blushed a dusty rose and returned the kiss with a before unseen fiery passion. Crabbe and Goyle fell out of their chairs but no one else seemed to notice.

The twins jumped in with criticism for the “pureblood ponce,” declaring, “we’ll string him up like week-old meat for taking advantage of you, Harry, don’t worry. No matter how far up into your mind he’s crawled, us Weasleys can get him out --”

And the girls of Hogwarts were all caught between confusion at the unlikely pairing and despair that the two most eligible bachelors were in fact taken, and not (at least probably not) into women. (Some girls were actually quite happy at the revelation and decided to fangirl themselves into oblivion.)

Luna Lovegood clearly fell into the latter category, as she pulled out a green and red T-Shirt that said, “Draco+Harry=Drarry.”

The teacher’s table was in absolute chaos as Trelawney waxed poetic about how she’d seen it all along and how Harry was going to die within the week, Hagrid paced around like an overgrown sentinel, Dumbledore’s hands shook and McGonagall’s face turned purple, and to top it all off, Professor Sprout handed Professor Flitwick a handsome sum of money. 

So caught up was everyone in their whispers and yells and accusations, that they all quite forgot about the couple in question, where Harry was currently being fed little bits of toast from atop Draco’s lap. 

  
Harry had woken up to near-full capacity, (though he was always tired, these days) and scrunched up his nose at all the yelling.

“Why’d you make it so public?”

Draco put another bit of toast in Harry’s mouth. “What, needed me to be your little secret?”

Harry chewed and swallowed. “No. You know that’s not it. Just--” Hermione was restraining Ron with little bits of conjured rope as he attempted to leap across the table and slaughter the Malfoy.

Draco pressed his nose into the side of Harry’s neck. “Just what?”

“Well, it’s not very cunning of you, is it? Coming out and all like this. It feels like something  _ I  _ would do. The only reason I hadn’t was because I figured you’d want to plan it all out.” 

Draco lifted up Harry’s cup for him to drink. “By doing this, I’ve made myself a public enemy of the Dark Lord’s agenda. I can ask Dumbledore for sanctuary, and he’ll probably give it to me. And I get to snog you in public. It’s a win-win.”

Harry furrowed his brow. “What about your family?”   
  


Draco shuddered. “It’s not easy for me to say, but… they made their own choices when they fell into bed with a psychopath. I need to make mine.” He paused for a moment, then added in a hushed whisper, “my mum ran to France yesterday anyway. I told her to go in advance.”

Harry was about to respond, but Ron was still ranting and it looked like some students were about to come to blows over accusations of Draco forcing Harry.

Casting a sonorous, Harry bellowed, “OY!” The hall turned to look at him. 

“I don’t know why you all are making this such a big deal, but it’s fine that two boys are into each other, and homophobia’s a bad look on all of you.”

Hermione was about to say something when Terry Boot shouted, “That’s not the problem! He’s a fucking Slytherin!”

Snape said, “Fifteen points from Ravenclaw.”

Harry shouted, “Yeah well if you all can see that two boys can love each other just fine, why can’t two boys from different houses? It’s all the same, isn’t it? No need to go off and prove yourself prejudiced.”

Draco kissed the side of Harry’s head. “Love me, do you?” He said in a teasing tone.

Harry rolled his eyes. 

Ron stopped struggling against Hermione and fell back, somewhat limp. "Bloody fucking hell, Harry," he muttered. He sighed and then cracked a rye smile. “Really, mate? Malfoy?” He laughed a bit hysterically. “I guess you really can’t ever be normal about anything, can you?”   


Ginny Weasley smacked the back of Ron’s head. “Well, I’m happy for you, both of you.” She reached out a hand.

Draco took it and shook it solemnly. “Thank you.”   


The DA galleon warmed up in Harry’s pocket and he took it out to see letters flashing in succession, “C.O.N.G.R.A.TS.!” Followed by, “W.E.D.O.C.A.R.E.-.T.H.E.S.N.A.K.E.S”

"Drarry" was old news by exams, and Luna had sold over one hundred shirts.

***

He was taking Binn’s “History of Magic Final,” half-asleep because he was always teetering on the edge of total exhaustion. He felt a pressure building above his brows and when he collapsed to the floor, it almost felt like coming home. Someone might have screamed, “Harry!” He heard a whisper: urgent, “Get Snape...”

The images that flashed behind his closed lids, of Sirius and the Department of Mysteries were too perfect, too manicured… they sang with the saccharine sweetness of a lie, that he knew it was a trick, a trap. But he watched them anyway, let his heart beat erratically at the image of the first adult to… love him or... care about him, certainly, in the clutches of a murder. His monster. He watched Voldemort, the entity that was once a man, craft a tailored nightmare… just for him. 

...When he opened his eyes he saw that all his classmates had stopped taking their exams and were crowding around in a loosely formed circle, practically  _ vibrating  _ with anxious energy. It was surprising, to say the least. Binns was hovering in mild concern and mumbling, “but the tests, the tests,” and was largely being ignored. 

Someone was muttering, “do you think it was another attempt?” and then that same someone, if Harry had to guess, was slapped. “He can hear you!” He thought that the second voice belonged to Justin Finch-Fletchely. 

“Harry,” Hermione’s voice murmured from somewhere above him, “can you hear me?”

He blinked at her slowly, realizing he was lying on the cold ground with his head pillowed in her lap. Ron was sitting beside him, hands hovering in uncertainty. Harry grunted and then pushed himself into a seated position. He lifted a hand to his scar and rubbed, shaking his head as if there was water in his ears. His fingertips came away bloody. 

“Hmm? Oh yeah, I’m fine.” He said. 

Ron shook his head. “You’re not fine. You just passed out and you’re bleeding.”

“Does it hurt?” Hermione asked. 

Harry tried to stand and decided he was better off sitting against the wall for a little longer. “Sorry, does what hurt?” He questioned somewhat vaguely.

The class exchanged glances. 

“Your scar, Harry,” Hermione said pointedly.

Harry leaned his head back. “Mm. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” Ron prodded.

“Oh yeah. I’ve had loads worse.” 

This comment didn’t seem to settle the class at all, but then again, they’d already decided to be concerned so there wasn’t really anything Harry could do about it. 

“You guys can finish taking your exam and everything now,” he told the gawking group. “I’m all good, promise. Sorry for scaring you guys a bit.”

There were several scoffs and one muttered, “Fucking understatement, Potter,” but for the most part, no one moved. 

“There were only five minutes to go in the exam anyway, so most of us were already finished,” Susan Bones said gently. “Do you need space?”

With immaculate timing, as always, Snape swooped into the room wearing a scowl larger than the London-eye. “What Mr. Potter requires,” he declared in a deadly calm tone, “is my strict guidance away from prying eyes.” With a targeted glare at the class, Snape levitated Harry with very little concern for anyone in proximity to him and strolled out of the class towing his charge. 

“Honestly, I leave you alone to take your exams and you go and forget all the work we’ve done together these past months. Occlumency. Patronuses. I don’t know why I even bothered.” 

“Sorry, Prof.” Harry apologized on the oddly floaty journey down to Snape’s office. Snape projected malevolent energy which discouraged any audience from following the odd procession. The portraits all seemed to be playing chicken with the inert Gryffindor, staring at him for as long as possible before running when he got too close to their frames. 

The corridor outside of Professor Snape’s office had indeed been redecorated with blue marble floors and walls inlaid with precious stones -- topaz, onyx, and emeralds. Marcus Flint of all people had won Dumbledore’s bizarre competition. 

The hall was noticeably clear of any paintings other than Slytherin himself. Not even canvas Gryffindors had been brave enough to reside on the site of previously unseen destruction. 

Slytherin raised a brow at the levitating Harry. “ _ Hard day?”  _ He hissed in sympathy.

_ “You have no idea. They’re all worried about my mental health.”  _ Harry replied.

Slytherin laughed, deep and throaty.  _ “Sanity is for the weak.”  _

It was not… encouraging. Snape maneuvered Harry into his office and shut the door with the flick of his wand. Only once Harry was firmly settled on one of Snape’s couches did the man relax the body bind on his younger charge. 

Harry rubbed the back of his neck while Snape stared him down, towering above him. 

“So.” Snape intoned. 

“So?” Harry parroted back.

Snape pinched his nose between nimble fingers. “Are you going to tell me why?”

“Why what?” Harry tried to make himself the picture of innocence, dark-framed green eyes sparkling.

“Do not.” Snape demanded. “Do not joke. Not about this.”

Harry sighed. He played with one of his hands, picking around his nail bed until it drew blood. Snape slid to sit down next to him and grasped his wrist, stopping the behavior. “Harry…” his voice rumbled, “it’s alright. Just tell me what you're thinking, hmm?” 

“He wants me to go to the department of mysteries. He wants me to think that he has Sirius.” 

“I find that very hard to believe. If Dumbledore is to be trusted, which I will in this very limited case, Sirius is in the process of getting a trial as we speak.” 

Harry's face snapped up quickly from his hands. “What?” 

Snape’s lips ghosted a smile. “You heard me.” 

Harry shook his head. “But I thought he’d never-- that he’d always have to live you know --”

“Under house arrest?” Snape’s thumbs pressed gently against Harry’s wrist. “Mm. Yes. I can see why you thought that. Indeed, I think we all had that thought. But it turns out, when you are the Supreme Mugwump all you need is the right motivation to right wrongs of the past.” 

Harry frowned for a moment. The praise was a gilded admonishment. “So this whole time, Dumbledore could have -- let him free?”

“Remains to be seen. We won’t know until later in the day, I imagine.” 

Harry curled into Snape's side. “What happens if he’s found innocent?”

“You live with him this summer and I visit you when I can.”

“Couldn't I live with you?” Harry said it quietly, trying to push down images of a broken little boy sitting in the darkness dreaming of rescue. 

“You may not recall this always, but I am a Death Eater. I can’t very well have the Dark Lord’s worst enemy in my spare-bedroom drinking my best tea.” Snape looked down at his forearm with a look of utter loathing.

Harry nodded. “That makes… sense.” He lapsed into silence. “You’d really give me your best tea?” 

Snape brushed back his dark fringe and traced the scar with a soft touch. “I’d give you all the best things. You deserve them all.” 

Harry blinked back the protests of  _ you’re wrong, I’m nothing,  _ and tried to listen to Draco’s voice, (breathe, just breathe.)

“So I’m not going back to my fam-- the Dursleys?”

“Never.” It was a promise. Snape sighed, rubbing his knuckles down Harry’s spine. He pressed a kiss to the top of Harry’s head, hesitating then asking...

“Why did you let yourself see the Dark Lord’s visions? I know you can stop them.”

Harry grabbed a bit of Snape’ robes and clasped it in a fist. “If I’m going to die at his hands, I’d rather he not be a stranger. I’d like to know whose hands kill me.” 

Snape closed his eyes. “You’re going to go to the Department of Mysteries, aren’t you?” It wasn’t much of a question. 

“Of course.”

“Even though it’s a trap?”

“ _ Because  _ it’s a trap _. _ ”

“Why?” There was so much heartbreak in that one word.

“He wants the prophecy, and I can give it to him in exchange for a vow he won’t kill me today. He’ll spend a long time searching for a ‘power he knows not.’”

Snape tightened his hold. “So you’d get to live longer. You’re gambling with your life.”

“It’s all I have. Sue me for wanting to send him on a wild goose chase for a few more years.”

“The house always wins, Harry. He will outsmart you and kill you. Viciously.”

Harry looked into Snape’s black eyes. “It’s my choice. I’ve spent fifteen years without any of my own decisions. If I fail, if I  _ die,  _ I want to do it on my own terms. I deserve that much, don’t I?”

Snape looked at him for a long time, as if memorizing his eye color, the point of his nose, the sharp edge of his jaw, the crazy black hair. He was memorizing the sound of Harry’s breaths and the way his eyes were set with the determination of a man. The professor's lips twisted in a pained acknowledgment.“So be it. I will be… waiting for you. Until the end.” 

Harry nodded. “Thank you.” He hoped Snape could hear all the gratitude and affection he layered into those two words. 

Snape smiled, broken. “Naturally. You, Harry, deserve so much better. It’s been -- an -- honor to know you. You need to survive so that I may endeavor to annoy the mutt terribly this summer.”

Harry laughed wetly. “Yeah. See you on the other side.”

Snape whispered, “Ave, Mr. Potter.”

It was with a portkey keyed to Snape’s office and the promise of a light at the end of the tunnel that Harry departed Hogwarts. Alone. Some things he had to do on his own. 

***

Hermione and Draco disagreed. (Draco had gotten much better at eaves-dropping charms, and Snape had tipped off the bushy-haired witch. Well, he'd tipped off McGonagall because he wasn't about to let Harry go and run off into danger unsupported, and Hermione "just happened" to have a Weasley twin listening device on her person.) 

The group formerly known as Dumbledor’s Army -- now named HP, Harry’s Protectors -- apparated to the ministry minutes after the-boy-who-lived. They were an odd assortment: grim Hufflepuffs, loyal Ravenclaws, cunning Gryffindors, and four stupidly brave Slytherins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nott: Where'd our screen-time go?  
> Blaise: Well, we are side-characters.  
> Greengrass: It's lazy writing to not have included any of our scenes in the HP formerly known as the DA. How will the readers know that Hermione respects me?  
> Blaise: Because you just told them?  
> Nott: Right.  
> Greengrass: But that's still lazy writing. Honestly, I feel like the author is giving up.  
> *From nowhere, Trelawney*: I see the end in the future.  
> Nott: Yeah, whatever. I didn't take divination.  
> Trelawney: You should leave a comment before the finale


	16. The Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This it! The big battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, kids. I'm emotional. This is my first ever fanfiction and I've been overwhelmed by all the support.
> 
> This is the end of most of the story. All that's left is the epilogue.
> 
> To everyone who's stuck it out and read all the words to get here, thank you. This has been the experience of a lifetime and I'm so blessed to all of you who've been on this journey with me.
> 
> Thank you. Leave a comment or drop a kudos if you feel so inclined.

The department of mysteries was almost insultingly easy to enter. Harry had to wonder if that meant the wards had been taken down by already waiting Death Eaters or if he had somehow accidentally (on purpose) removed them in his unorthodox apparition. The latter felt more likely.

The large archways overhead echoed his sharp footfalls on polished stone, the _click-clacks_ reverberating through an otherwise eerily silent hall. 

He walked silent and alone, wand clasped in his loose fist, school robes traded out for his most comfortable garments. He wore loose trousers and an overlarge Weasley sweater. It was, perhaps, a child’s acknowledgment of the only family he had ever known. There was a Gryffindor tie around his neck and an emerald band with the Malfoy crest (a gift from Draco) wrapped around one finger. The clothes were easy to fight in, easy to laugh in, and good enough for sleeping. (Forever, if needed) 

_Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Harry Potter, come to die alone._

He traced the pathway of his nightmares with the skilled muscle memory of someone who’s made a walk so many times they could do it with their eyes closed. The hallway turned just _there,_ thirty steps ahead. There was a glass case with a floating brain fifteen steps to the right. 

And he was alone, legitimately alone, for the first time in weeks. (The first time in _years_ , really.) No one was here to rush into the shower and make sure he was okay. No one was waiting for him outside his cupboard with a loose hanging belt and purple face.

He was walking the long march to a new future with his own two legs, no one pulling him from ahead or prodding him from behind. He was calm.

When he entered the chamber, prophecies in glowing orbs set all around and a dais with a curtain whispering and seducing, he heard the steady hum of disillusionment and traps. 

He side-stepped the jinxes on the floor, ducked behind Death-Eaters with poorly maintained invisibility and outstretched arms, and made his way seamlessly to the orb marked for him and the “Dark Lord.”

Voldemort had not deigned to attend. Well then. It was to be a waiting game. 

He looked out at the hall and felt his way to the threads of spells, _hiding, conceal, trap him,_ taking them in his mind and _pulling_ until the chorus lines fell silent. 

A myriad of men and women in black robes and ghastly masks stood staring back at him for a moment of utter shock. 

Harry took the prophecy in a palm and poised it above the stone floor. 

“One wrong move and I’ll drop it,” he warned. “Your master is interested in this, isn’t he? Better not risk it.”

Lucius Malfoy stepped forwards, blonde hair too ethereal for the position he was taking as a creature of the dark. His silken robes were made of resplendent finery and his steps were measured with all the training of a pureblood lord. 

“Now, now Potter,” he chided, “Always one for the dramatics. There is no one here to save; your part as the hero is quite done. Give over the prophecy or face dire consequences.”

Harry looked at him for a moment in a very analytical kind of way and recalled Draco’s lessons in etiquette. ( _Honestly, Harry, since you’re to be Lord Malfoy-Potter you’ve got to know these things or you’ll embarrass the both of us.)_ Harry had snapped back, _(Malfoy-Potter, is it? What happened to Potter-Malfoy?)_ Draco had rolled his eyes. _(Older family ties always go first. Indeed, this is why we need to start immediately. We’ll begin with greetings. Even you should be able to manage_ **_that_ **.)

With his straightest back and most polite half-smile, Harry dipped his head deferentially in the manner befitting an heir in front of a Lord. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” he greeted, “a pleasure.” 

Lucius Malfoy looked quite taken aback. Harry enjoyed that. 

Bellatrix Lestrange cackled from behind Lucius. 

“Oh Lulu,” she giggled, “Bitty Potter thinks himself an adult. Look at him growing up! But time to give Auntie Bella the prophecy before mummy comes to get you, boy. Oh, but you don’t have a mummy, do you?”

Harry gave her a winsome smile. “Lestrange,” he purred, “as abhorrent as always. I’m sure I’ll be joining my mum soon enough, thanks.”

She too looked at him in confusion as Lucius prowled ever closer. 

“Enough with the false bravado, little lion. I know you as many do not, and despite your attempts at bravery, we can all see the quaking little boy beneath your facade. Hand it over or we’ll kill all your friends.”

Harry shrugged. “Sure. No worries.” 

Lucius started. “Sure?”

Bellatrix was cackling again.

“I already know it,” Harry said. “Load of shite if you ask me. Very dumb of Voldemort--” he smiled at the collective flinch “--to get all hung up over a baby because of it. Self-fulfilling and all that. Like Oedipus. If he’d decided, ‘Dumbles is a cracked-up teapot so I’ll just ignore him,’ and left the whole thing alone he’d have won the war over a decade ago and not have had to resurrect like some grotesque candle made out of melting wax. As it stands, I’m glad I was left with my relatives and that he’s not my mother, otherwise, I’d be concerned that I’d have been self-fulfilled into sleeping with _him_ , and that’s a disgusting and frankly terrifying thought.” He paused for a moment and glanced at a steadily deteriorating Bellatrix Lestrange, “Sorry Auntie Bella, no disrespect for your type. If you want to bone anatomically incorrect snake men, that’s your choice.”

Several death eaters choked. 

“Master is,” Bellatrix said, vibrating with anger, “a wonder brought down from heaven to earth and you are unworthy of even uttering his name, filthy half-blood scum. You will give us the prophecy and then I will ask him, _beg_ him, if I can tear you to pieces before he kills you.” She looked at him with an expression of utter loathing. “Perhaps I can begin now,” she mused, voice laden with maniacal glee and impotent fury. Quick as a viper she lashed out by casting a bright red stunning charm at him.

Harry ignored it. If it hit him, he’d drop the orb and break it into unsalvageable pieces Voldy could never use. That would be a bit funny.

Lucius shouted, “No!” and cast a quick shield, sending the blast to nearby prophecies that shattered and shriveled, never to be heard. 

“Bellatrix! Control yourself,” Lucius demanded. “We’ve been given one task. We can kill him _after_.”

She hissed at Harry with bared teeth. “Scum,” she spat. He gave her a two-fingered salute.

“Got it in one. Right, where was I? Oh yeah. So, I guess I was prophesied into being able to defeat good old Moldyshorts--” there was more choking and one quickly aborted snicker, “so I won’t have to fuck him --” several shouts on the subject his uncouth tongue, “--oh yeah I’m real _Potter_ mouth, get it?” He was met with blank stares. “Like Potty mouth? Nevermind. You are all so uncultured.”

One death eater, Selwyn, Harry thought, muttered, “And you are not? Filth.”

Harry ignored him, “But so I don’t have to fuck him because of the prophecy which is my gain really, though it must suck for you Daddy Malfoy because then I get your son.”

Lucius’s mask disintegrated in what looked to be accidental magic. _Huh. Well, I’ll be damned. Lucius and Severus really are similar. They both accidentally burn shit._

His high cheekbones were touched with splashes of angry red. “What did you say about my son?”

Harry made an over-exaggerated look of arousal. “We’re quite involved. We know each other. Biblically.” He mimed jacking off.

Several gags were heard and one more snicker and one -- entirely out of place -- moan. It was not his.

Lucius must have had something to say, perhaps some denial or somesuch, but Harry cut him off saying, “Look, I’ll give the prophecy freely, just ask Mold the Vort--” this time he got a real cackle, from Jugson, most likely, “to get his pasty butt here himself and no questions asked, I’ll hand him the toxin to poison the rest of his sorry existence. But I won’t give it to any of his lapdogs and bootlickers, sorry not sorry.”

There was indignance then and muttering, and much of the same, “Potter, he won’t show up for _you,”_ but that was just wrong. If Voldy could get into his head, he could get into the Dark Lord’s mind. So he closed his eyes, followed the thread of a silver stag, and made his way into the twisted looking glass world of the being that was once Tom Riddle. He knew it the moment he had the Dark Lord’s attention and so he projected the image of him holding the prophecy in the department of mysteries and murmured, “Boo.”

***

The HP arrived at the ministry and was met by the disturbing truth that all the wards had fallen. Draco concealed a small smile behind his cool exterior. The complete absence of the spells had Harry’s signature all over it -- like that time he apparated _inside_ Hogwarts with no regard whatsoever for what was considered impossible. 

There was something seductive in the unattainable, and Draco had spent much of his childhood searching for what could never be. He’d done so recently and succumbed to the childish desire to have his father’s approval. He’d sent a letter to both of his parents. He told them that he was in no uncertain terms in love with a boy and therefore would not be marrying any Greengrass girls. He told them the boy he loved was _firmly_ aligned with the light and so he was leaving Voldemort behind for good. He told them to get out of Britain and the control of a madman while they still could.

His mother had run away to France and begged him to come with her. He’d refused. She sent him a box of chocolates with French citizenship papers hidden in an enchanted compartment. The identification was under the Black family name. Apparently, she was in a Black family manor near the Alps. He could portkey anytime he needed. His boyfriend was welcome too, she said. 

His father had sent back a letter threatening disownment should Draco continue his opposition against the Dark Lord and the firmly written guidance, “ _it’s a phase Draco. If the feelings of homoeroticism persist, it does not necessitate termination of a marriage contract with the Greengrass family. Entertain yourself with whatever affairs you so desire after producing an heir and a spare like all men of decorum. Control yourself until then, Draco.”_

And so it was with pride that he walked with the children of war behind him, the majority of them cradle raised to oppose the dark, and he (and his three friends,) walking not with revenge on their minds but knowledge in their hands. They saw the mark, the brand of ownership, the debilitating fear, that stripped their parents of free-will; they knew intimately the monster that took the world of magic from a place of beauty and perverted it into a place of consumption. They grew in manors where midnight black spells took and took until all that remained of gardens were desolate wastelands that held the memories of when they were once filled with the sweet scent of nascent fantasy.

And it was in his mind that he thought firmly, _I will see that world returned._

***

He came in a whirlwind of obsidian miasma that roiled and rotted the air around him. Voldemort never lost his flair for the dramatic. Face pearlescent white and eyes of crimson blood, he appeared with robes swirling around his narrow frame and power rippling in every motion. 

He had eyes for no one but Harry and Harry had eyes for no one but him. The battle raging around them, of children and adults, of parents and their sons and daughters, went almost unnoticed. 

Harry saw a shock of red hair, a glimmer of blonde so blonde it was almost white, but he had tuned out the sounds of spells casting and shaking and dissipating in favor of the being in front of him. 

They stared at each other perhaps for a few moments and perhaps for a few hours. Time was irrelevant. They were the only two people in all of existence who could understand what it was that they were doing, who they were to each other. They were two boys on different sides of the same story, standing a handbreadth away with the future hanging on their shoulders. There was an acknowledgment that there would never again be another time when they could see each other like this, silent and unmoving, animosity forgotten for a sliver of eternity. Maybe it was because Harry was not a monster, maybe it was because he could so easily have been, but he felt the need to pay his parent’s murderer the respect he might have deserved if life had ever given him a fair chance.

He inclined his head, “Mr. Riddle.” 

Voldemort’s magic spiked, angered. “I know no one by that name.”

Harry could see it then, in the casual grasp of the wand Voldemort held between two bony fingers and the eyes that looked at him and down to the prophecy. 

He saw the spell coming before it hit. There was no voice given, “Harry Potter,” no words spoken, “Avada Kedavra,” just a flash of green, welcome as a lover’s forgotten embrace. _There’s a beauty in dying_ , Harry thought. He stood for a moment at the edge of a window, looking down at the world below, and in the next moment, fell weightless until he _was_ the world. Nowhere left to jump. 

He thought -- although his thoughts were already slipping away -- he saw Voldemort’s face twisted in triumph. He felt the prophecy leave his hand -- summoned most likely -- as his body fell forward. In the moments of his dwindling life, his soul hanging on for far longer than it should have, he could tell he was being clasped in the arms of some Death Eater in a surprisingly tender embrace, he could hear cries of anguish, and he could sense all-encompassing anger from the man who killed him as Voldemort discovered he could not cast any spell against Harry’s friends. 

_My mother’s not the only one who can make death into a sacrifice._

In the end, Harry reflected, he’d been fighting to live for a long time. There had been belts on his back and fists at his throat, there’d been hiding in cupboards and between walls and in attics; there had been sick magic in alleys and monsters in ancient chambers, and there were nightmares so profound he had them while waking, and he… he lived through it all. There was a sense of grief wrapped around his spine. There was a profound loss for all the things he would never accomplish. He mourned the Harry he would never become. And… there was a sense of relief he breathed in his final exhale, some little respite in this storm that was eerily calm. He’d been a survivor for so long, clinging to life by the skin of his teeth and the chokehold on his wand. 

There was, in the end, the letting go.

***

When the HP entered the ministry, wands blazing with spells they’d been taught that year by Harry, it was clear they had been prepared to fight.

Death Eater after Death Eater fell into sleep as yet another Somnus was cast. Eight were already snoring before the rest realized they were under attack.

Susan Bones had layered so many shield charms together, spells kept bouncing off of her. Terry Boot had pieced together charm-chains so well that with every stunner he sent, a dozen followed. 

Fred and George were bounding in and out of view, coming back in every moment with potions that were wreaking havoc on the senses of Death Eaters. 

Cho Chang and Ginny Weasley sent hex after hex, locking legs and transfiguring the ground into quicksand.

Daphne Greengrass was engaged in a duel with Rookwood and she was a vision in green, twisting and writhing, nimble as a snake, and employing spells light as sunshine with counters no self-respecting Slytherin ever bothered to learn.

Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott took on Nott Senior together. There was a moment where Theodore looked at his father with all the weight of a boy who had just become a man and Nott Senior looked back. They wore identical expressions of disgust. Nott Senior raised a wand, “You’ve forgotten your lessons, Theo.”

His son promised, “You’ll never teach them again.”

  
  
  


Draco was looking for Harry as he danced through the fray. So were Ron and Hermione.

They found him, just as Voldemort arrived and the world grew cold. Draco shouted, “HARRY!” but only drew attention to himself, and found himself battling head to head with Selwyn.

Hermione watched in horror as Harry fell forward after a flash of green. “No…” She muttered, sinking to the ground, “...Harry,” her voice broke, “get up. Get up. GET UP!”

Ron saw the death from the corner of his eye as he tried to set Antonin Dolohov’s pants on fire. The curse was aborted on his breath as he stared at the body of his friend fall lifelessly into the shaking hands of Lucius Malfoy. “Don’t touch him!” He shouted, charging toward Harry. Dolohov sneered down at him. 

“Gryffindors,” he sniffed, “always so emotional and leaving their backs vulnerable.” Ron stopped and turned around, grief and anger warring on his face. It smoothed out into something fiercely determined.

“Stupidly brave, yeah, the lot of us.” He crouched, a wild feral thing, whispered “impedimenta.” The curse was lobbed at the Death Eater and -- with some difficulty -- blocked. They fell into a duel then, shields and curses and hexes flying and refracting in a volley of motion.

  
  
  


Draco looked at Harry’s corpse being laid tenderly on the ground, and a single tear ran down his cheek. In words that were desperation more than language, he uttered, “You’ll all pay for this.” 

He clasped his anger and grief tight, the room growing hot around him. The air shivered and shook and in a moment of blinding light, several prophecies shattered. The shards exploded in a cacophony of movement, some jutting out and cutting the walls, some scoring the floor, and a few jagged fragments slicing Selwyn and Crabbe clean across their necks. They fell limp to the floor. Goyle took Selwyn’s place in front of Draco, a greedy gleam in his beady eyes.

“Always wanted to cut you down, little traitor.”

Draco gave the man a wicked smirk that was all the more chilling paired with his devastating anguish, “Then I’ll have to remind you how to kneel.”

  
  
  


Hermione was still just sitting on the floor, eyes glassy and unseeing, when she felt her wand plucked from her hand and a whispered curse, “Crucio.” She writhed in pain on hard stone and saw Bellatrix Lestrange’s face appear above her. 

  
She bit down on her cheek, the pain crawling all over her body, tearing tender chunks of nerves to pieces, but refusing to scream. The curse was lifted for a moment as Bellatrix looked at her with eyes full of light. 

“Oh, ickle mudblood. Stinking up the magic world, I smell. I wonder how long it will take until you become a little dolly with no mind left. We’ll have to throw you away then.”

With shaking limbs, Hermione stood. “I won’t break.” Her voice rasped and her face shone with tears.

Bellatrix giggled. “No? What are you going to do, little mudblood? You have no wand and you’re breaking a bit already. I can see the cracks. Poor Potter’s dead and he can’t come to save you.”

Hermione cracked a bitter smile, memories of the green-eyed boy laughing on a broomstick high above the clouds swimming beneath her lashes. “There’s no saving after this, is there?” 

Bellatrix looked Hermione up and down and breathed, “Oh, I’m going to have so much fun with you, my little mudblood.”

She raised her wand, Crucio on her tongue, when Hermione muttered, “Hogywarts,” and an odd muggle item appeared in her hand. 

“Is that a bitty toy for the Mudblood? Something to hold while you die?”

“You keep calling me mudblood you know,” Hermione said in a conversational tone, looking far more confident now and holding the muggle item even higher as she pointed it at Bellatrix. “But the thing is that your problem has nothing to do with my blood and rather a lot to do with my heritage,” she pulled a trigger and something tiny shot out, going toward Bellatrix at an incredibly fast velocity. “I’ve learned things you can’t imagine because you’ve never once thought beyond your arcane methods, not as I have.”

Bellatrix looked at the little object and quickly cast a magic shield but the projectile passed right through as if it was something that was not… a spell. Not even magical in the slightest, just deadly. But that shouldn’t have been possible, right? 

“You can’t expect me to act like I would if I were someone raised in your world because I wasn’t raised in your world.”

In the final moments of her life, Bellatrix saw a lioness with a fearsome amber mane and golden eyes that _burned_.

Hermione held the smoking gun in her hand as a deafening crack reverberated through Voldemort’s most faithful servant. The last words the insane woman ever heard were spoken in a tone of pure fire, “This is _because_ I’m a muggle-born, bitch.” 

With a hole shot clear through her forehead, Bellatrix Lestrange crumpled to the ground. 

***

King’s Cross station was emptier than Harry had ever seen it. The glass archways overhead bathed the empty room in golden light and there was one train on the track. It was white as snow and inlaid with diamond-patterned chrysanthemums. 

He looked around, trailing his hand over the empty counters from coffee-shops he half-remembered and wandering listlessly over the glimmering ground.

He stopped for a moment when he heard soft-sniffling, like a child who desperately needed to cry but was too afraid to make a sound. He followed the pitiful noises until he stood before a simple bench. Underneath the wooden planks, a young, _ugly_ , tiny boy was crouching, his back whipped half-off. Harry was about to crouch down when he heard a voice -- a voice that haunted his nightmares -- say, “You cannot help.”

Harry turned around so quickly he could hear his neck snap. “ _Cedric?_ ”

Cedric Diggory stood a foot away, hands casually tucked in his pockets, dirty blonde hair artfully windswept out of his eyes. He gave Harry a gentle smile, “Hey, Potter. How’ve you been?”

Harry felt his eyes grow wet. “How’ve I been? How have YOU been? I thought -- I thought I’d never see you again. I’m so sorry. So sorry. It was all my fault. Are you here to take me to… wherever it is we go now that we’re dead?”

Cedric laughed. “I don’t think you’re dead, yet, Harry. At least not all the way.”  
  


“What does that mean?”  
  


Cedric motioned to the train. “You can get on this train with me.”  
  


Harry glanced at it. “Where does it go?”  
  


Cedric looked wistful. “On.” 

Harry nodded.”On… right.” He rubbed at his scar, noticing that it felt different somehow… empty. “Or?”

Cedric motioned to the exit from the station. “Or you can go back.”

“...Back.”

Harry considered for a long moment but then heard another sniffle and his focus turned to the little boy. “What do you mean I can’t help him?”

“I was told that some things can’t be helped.”

Harry crouched down before the little boy, ignoring Cedric’s quick motion as though to stop him. “Yeah, well some people said they couldn’t help me. Poor Harry with his broken glasses and bruised ribs, but there’s nothing we can do. And it would have taken just one person -- just one -- and things might have changed.”

Cedric said, “You know who that is, don’t you?”

Harry said, “I can be that someone for him. He’s never gotten that, has he?”

He knew what it was like to be frightened and broken. He wouldn’t have wanted to be touched lightly -- he was so scared, so very scared of any movement back when he was the little boy who slept in a cupboard -- but even so, he’d wanted someone to hold him tight and safe, hold in all the things that were spilling out. 

“I’m going to hug you now, okay?” The little boy didn’t respond verbally but Harry saw an infinitesimal nod. He surged forward and clasped the little boy firmly in his arms, lifting him up gently with strong arms and tightening his hold around the shaking body.

“You’re alright,” he murmured, “I won’t hurt you.”

  
  


The boy sobbed.

“It’s alright now, it’s alright.”

They sat like that, for a long while, the little boy’s cries slowly quieting as Harry rocked them back and forth. 

“...Tom.” The little boy said at last.

“Tom?” Harry repeated, indulgent.

“My name is Tom.”

“I’m Harry.”

“I know. I’ve been here, with you, for a long time.”

“Have you?”

“Yeah.” 

Harry ran a hand through Tom’s hair and the little boy sighed into the crook of his neck.

He heard something then -- an echo of magic -- a sign that something about Tom was… missing. And that the thread of his soul, his fractured soul, was still tethered to places beyond and they could maybe, come back.

He thought of the diary and the angry teen trapped within. He thought of the monster outside this limbo that killed him. He thought about the bruised little boy in his arms. 

And then he thought about the way Snape had said, “you’re never going back to the Dursleys,” and felt a shining light come forth. Prongs sprang into existence with a doe, two beings made only out of light. Tom was staring at them transfixed. 

“Warm,” he mumbled.

  
  
Harry kissed the top of Tom’s head. “Yeah,” he said, “warm.” He looked at the two Patronuses and breathed out, catching the song of separation Tom chorused in his hands and playing it for them. With their own choir, they went to find the bits of soul left all over and bring them back, back out of the darkness and into a place of light. 

With every return of a Patronus, Tom grew a little older, a little stronger, and a little less hurt. 

Tom moved off his lap to sit next to him at some point when he got too big and said, “You’re an idiot, do you know that?”

Harry said, “Yeah.”

Tom nodded and leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder. Then he was taller and his jaw more defined and he said, “I should hate you.”

Harry snickered. “If anything, _I_ should hate you.”

Tom ignored this statement and continued on as if the Gryffindor hadn’t spoken, “And yet, I think I hate you the least of everyone I’ve ever known. For all that you’ve tried to kill me.”

“To be fair, you tried to kill me first.”

“Just the once, really. Never thought I’d end up inside your head.”

By the end, Tom was broader than Harry and older. He was handsome with aristocratic features and eyes of grey fluorite. He stared at Harry with a mixture of fondness and calculation and perhaps a bit of anger. 

The Patronuses dissipated into the air, job completed. Tom’s soul sang empty and whole.

“Welcome back then, to all of you, I guess,” Harry said.

Tom stood abruptly. “I could go back through that exit, stronger than I was before. Finish the job myself. This was very stupid of you.”

Harry stood as well and shrugged. “I’m stupid to a fault. At least part of you has been with me long enough to know that. And you were hurting. I couldn’t just leave you.”

Tom was silent and looked back between Cedric and the exit multiple times. 

“You are unrealistically kind to everyone, Harry. It’s not healthy at all. Someone will take advantage of you.”

“But will you?”

Tom tapped his fingers against his thigh. The sound echoed. “I do not believe I will." He continued to tap. The pace of his fingers reached a crescendo, the rhythm lost in a frenzy of thought. Then, the very next moment, he dropped his hand and the station fell silent.

"... I guess, sometimes I wish I could finally rest, but…” he looked at the train as though it would bite him and flinched. In a very small voice, he admitted, “I’m scared.”

Cedric walked forward and laid a gentle hand on Tom’s shoulder. In an equally small voice, Cedric confessed, “I was too.”

Tom nodded and then forced himself to look at Cedric. Voice quiet, he mused, “I guess everyone is, at the end.” The light bathed his head in a gentle glow. He raised his eyes toward the heavens, feeling the sun on his face and breathing, just…. breathing. “I’m sorry.”

Cedric said, “It wasn’t really _you_.”

Tom shook his head “No, not to you.” He turned to Harry. “I learned that the hardest thing about death is that you leave people behind. Being the one left all alone, it’s so painful. And it’s happened so much to you, hasn’t it?”

Harry said, “Tom, what do you mean?”

Tom’s voice shook. “Thank you, Harry Potter. For being someone who looked at me, in so much pain, and decided that I was worth it. That I was worth something. That -- that hasn’t happened, to me before. And -- and -- I know it never happened to you.”

Tom brushed a lock of hair out of Harry’s face like he had been longing to do it for years.

"In the beginning of my time with you, all I desired was to take your mind and steal your soul. But I do not think anyone is truly immutable, and living with you gave me a whole host of emotions and reflections I had never before experienced. I grew to... care for you, in some fashion. And there were days, so many days, when I wished, more than _anything_ , that I could save you. The way you did me.”

In a moment of surprising tenderness, Tom Riddle wrapped Harry in a fierce embrace and pressed a kiss to his lightning scar. 

Then, with Cedric holding his hand, legs shaking, he walked the path to the snow-white train. He gave the boy-who-lived, the green-eyed child he’d lived with for a decade, a sad smile and said, “So I’m sorry for this, Harry Potter. For being another person to leave you behind.”

He stepped onto the carriage and waved for a moment, as the train began to move, taking him _on._

Harry waved back, eyes blinded by tears. The train disappeared into golden sunlight.

He lifted a hand to his forehead, still sensing phantom warmth and feeling utterly, utterly alone. The tracks were empty. Voice breaking, he whispered, “Ave, Mr. Riddle. Until we meet again.”

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Sirius Black was declared innocent by the ministry and cleared of all charges right as the building shook. Alarms began blaring and the assembled court (which included one Albus Dumbledore) drew their wands immediately. 

Minister Fudge smoothed down the lapels of his robe and cleared his throat. He asked the portrait behind him, (the one tied into the security system of the building,) in a shrill voice, “And what seems to be the problem?”

The portrait was still for a long moment, and then, in the tiniest voice possible it said, “He-Who-Must-Not-Named has arrived.”

Pandemonium ensued. 

***

Consciousness came back to Harry slowly. He was lying on the ground… somewhere. There were shots echoing throughout the space -- gunshots?

He heard Neville yell, loudly, “That’s for my parents you fucking bastard,” and another voice shout out, “Rodolphus!” followed quickly by another shot and a pained, “That was my leg!”

Six more shouts ran out in quick succession with several more pained grunts. Ernie McMillian shouted, “You’re a dead shot, Luna.”

A dreamy voice replied, “Oh, I just go for the wand hands.” 

Harry heard a slithering rustle by his ear and then, in parseltongue, Nagini say, _“Masster. I feel ssso empty now. The gift you gave me, it’sss gone. It wasss ssso warm for a moment, and now I am ssso cold.”_

Voldemort replied, anxious even through the hissing, “ _What do you mean my pet, my sssoul? What isss gone?”_

The snake seemed to curl in on itself, _“That’ss gone, masster. The sssoul, I think, iss gone.”_

“That’s not possible,” Voldemort was muttering, “He’s dead. I killed him. There’s no more power that I know not. There’s nothing there.”

Then he commanded, “Lucius, check to make sure the Potter brat is dead. Kill him if he isn't.” His voice carried over the chamber, the sounds of the fight slowing down to silence. 

Voldemort raised his voice. “You all fight against me as children, and like children, you will all fall. You looked to this boy at my feet like a hero. And yet, Harry Potter is dead. He is dead just like you will all be if you do not cease this madness. Your golden light is nothing. But I will be a merciful ruler. Kneel, and I’ll let all but the mudblood and traitors live.”

Harry heard a sharp intake of breath and opened his eyes for a moment, staring into a familiar shade of blue-silver on Lucius Malfoy’s face.

Harry mouthed, “He means Draco.”

Lucius looked down at the ring Harry had on his finger, eyes intense with unnamed emotion. Malfoy straightened and stood. “He’s dead my lord.”

Harry smiled on the ground. Voldemort spread his arms expansively. “Dead.” He proclaimed. 

But then Harry heard tears and sobs from the HP. _How did I ever want to leave them?_

He groaned dramatically and all eyes turned to him. He stood up with his arms outstretched. “Brains,” he moaned. 

He heard a gasp of relief and saw Draco clutching at his chest with both hands. Harry winked.

“Hey baby, how you been?”

“I’m going to fucking kill you for this, you know that, right?”

Harry dusted off his pants. “Draco. Don’t discuss our fucking here, that’s inappropriate.”

He got a wet laugh at a response. Voldemort was staring at him in a state of almost catatonia before he collected himself.

“The boy who’s come to die again, I see.”

Harry stretched his arms above his head, far too relaxed. “No thanks. Been there, done that. I’m good now.”

Ron shouted, “That’s my best friend.”

Harry grinned. “Damn straight. I’m not afraid, Voldemort.”

Voldemort raised his wand. “But you should be.” He cast another Avada, but Harry side-stepped and let it clatter into the prophecies behind him. 

“Your friends may have been using these muggle guns on my death eaters, but they won’t kill me. Not with this body. You know all about that, don’t you?”

Harry grinned even wider. “Oh, I do. The bone of your father. The flesh of your servant. Gross, by the way. I’d never take anything off of someone who’s name is _wormtail._ And the blood of your enemy, wasn’t it? Forcibly taken.”

Voldemort cast something else which Harry reached out to and dissipated in a shower of brilliant sparks. “Your mother is nothing to you now, I took her sacrifice and it made me strong. She was a silly girl at the end, like you. Nothing but a silly boy.”

  
Harry’s face turned to stone. “Well,” he remarked, “that was just rude.” And then, in a deathly calm voice, he told Voldemort, “You have something that doesn’t belong to you. It’s terribly impolite to steal.”

With a clear mind, with the words of Snape echoing in his head, with a doe on his right and a stag on his left, he wrapped both his hands around the chords that held Voldemort’s golem body together and tugged at the crimson thread. 

“That’s _my_ blood, you can’t keep it. It’s too dirty for you.” A small gash opened on Voldemort’s arm and scarlet red trickled out onto the floor. 

Voldemort remained standing and began to laugh. “I’ve been alive too long Potter. The ritual can’t be undone. You won’t kill me like this.”

Harry walked forward and laid a hand on Voldemort’s cheek. “I didn’t need it to be undone. Remember my first year and the philosopher's stone?” His hand, where it rested on Voldemort’s cheek, was smoking.

“You think to defy me with touch, you foolish child but I...”

Harry cupped his other palm on Voldemort’s cheek. “My mother’s sacrifice, it was in her blood, wasn’t it? And that's gone now. It wasn't yours to take. ... I can touch you now.”

The Dark Lord began to burn.

His screams were full of agony. In his desperation, he called all the Death Eaters from around the globe back to him. He turned his fire-drenched cheek to Snape and commanded (begged,) “Severus, my most faithful. Kill him. Kill them _all_.”

Severus Snape looked cooly down at the shriveled monster. “No.” His voice was heavy with relief and condescension, as though the man in front of him was nothing. “I will not.” And he, an army of one, made quick work of subduing the horde of assembled men (and select women.)

Many Death Eaters, sensing they’d lost, turned on their brethren and assisted Snape in his actions. Lucius Malfoy and Jugson were two of the fastest to give their assistance. 

When the body of the former Dark Lord was burned to a crisp, a small wraith came forth, hissing at those assembled. “I will be back and you will all fall,” it promised. 

The doe Patronus charged the thing back, back, and toward the whispering curtain that beckoned all life with seductive barely-there words. The wraith fell through the cloth with a strong sense of finality. For a moment, the world beyond the curtain was silent. 

Luna Lovegood shot Rosier clear through his right hand. “He was infested by violent nargles.”

Then Sirius Black charged into the chamber, Dumbledore and half the wizarding world behind him, McGonagall too with professors Flitwick and Badgerwood. 

Sirius bellowed, “Harry, I’ve come to save you.”

  
  
Snape raised an unimpressed brow as everyone assembled surveyed the scene. “Bit late for that, Black. Harry’s gone and saved all of you.” He tsked, “What an irresponsible guardian.” 

And Harry, he laid his forehead on Snape’s bony shoulder and murmured, “I guess you can give me your best tea now in front of anybody.”

Snape wrapped Harry up tightly, just the way he liked to be held. “I’ll give you the best of everything. Merlin knows you deserve it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco: So you were killed, yeah?  
> Harry: Yep.  
> Draco: And then you were just told, “No big deal, you can go back?”  
> Harry: Yep.  
> Draco: You were just given blanket permission, “Oh no worries. Go back to life whenever you feel like it.”  
> Harry: That’s what happened, yes.  
> Draco: And that didn’t seem entirely bizarre to you?  
> Harry: I mean a little bit, but not really.  
> Draco: So you just decided, “Eh, I’ve been dead for a little bit, but I don’t like it all that much, so I’m just gonna hop back to the real world?”  
> Harry: You understand me so well.  
> Draco: ….  
> Draco: ….  
> Draco: … Has anyone ever told you that you do a terrible job of obeying the laws of the universe?  
> Harry: Hey, I can’t help it. I’m the main character.


	17. Epilogue: Fireworks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been with me on this journey! Thus concludes Another Mind Game, my first ever fanfic. The response has been something out of my dreams. Who'd have thought we'd make it this far? Leave a kudos and comment (even all my silent lurkers,) to prove your existence!
> 
> Did I write this whole thing just to make sure the Weasley twins both graduated happy and healthy? Maybe...
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the ending!

McGonagall's office, like the rest of the school, was bursting with festive spirit. Red and gold streamers sparkled with the vibrance of a thousand burning candles and the walls were draped in dancing confetti fairies. Outside her office door, decorations spilled into the hallways of Hogwarts and filled the old stone corridors with previously unseen joyous sentiments. 

Since returning victorious from the hall of mysteries, the Weasley twins had taken over the HP and transformed the club into an elite benevolent force to enact (mildly self-congratulatory) celebratory activities all over the school. Candies fell from the sky, Peeves whistled merry-out-of-season-carrols, and fireworks shot out at random intervals -- star-gold letters proclaiming, “Anatomically incorrect snake-man Mold the Vort gone at last,” and “Knock-knock,” “ _ Who’s there? _ ” “You know,” “ _ You-know-who? _ ” “ **No, he’s dead now** !” 

Luna Lovegood convinced -- through sheer charm and confusing riddles -- the house-elves to place sprigs of holly all over the school in homage to Harry’s wand. (Draco had quite a few things to say on the subject of Harry’s “wand.”)

Despite the overall spirit of pervasive joy felt in every corner of the castle (except for a few dark nooks in the Slytherin dormitory,) exams had been taken and students were required to register for the next year’s classes.

Which is how Harry found himself in McGonagall's office on the last day of instruction. He and Ron had already taken all their exams. Hermione was sitting for her Arithmancy final. 

McGonagall was behind a desk of shining oak; it was overlaid with golden sparkles and tiny animated glass cats. 

Her expression was severe and identical to the look she’d given him that first time he’d been found out of bed long after curfew. 

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry gave her a gentle smile. “Yes, Professor? How can I help you?”

McGonagall pursed her lips. “It’s not about how you can help me, it’s rather a question of how I might go about helping you.”

Harry relaxed in his chair, throwing one leg up on the desk and ignoring her brow raise. “Well then, I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I’ve just gone and vanquished my greatest enemy, so I think I’m all good now, and to be frank, you weren’t a whole lot of  _ help _ with that whole situation.” 

The elder woman flushed slightly but squared her shoulders. “Regardless of the past, Mr. Potter, you need to focus on your future."   


He gave her a bitter laugh. “I have a bit more of that than you expected, huh?”

She looked impossibly fond and sad for a moment. “You do.” She smiled tremulously. “But I always hoped, and here we are. Both alive. I cherish our fortune.”

Harry shrugged. “And what seems to be the problem?”

McGonagall laid out the sheet of his class registration. “You wanted to be an Auror earlier this year. You’ve dropped potions, so you’re going to be unable to enter the field. And you’ve added fifth-year ancients runes and alchemy as an elective. You’ll be too behind in ancient runes for the course material and I’m not sure what profession you’ll be able to accomplish with the schedule.”

Harry gave the course list a cursory glance. “Aunt Cissa agreed to teach me over the summer. She’s got a mastery in ancient runes. And as for ‘my profession,’ I’ll be taking a muggle business class and having Sev train me in wizard commerce. I’m going to be Lord Malfoy-Potter after all. And if we have children, Draco and I will split up Dad duties.” 

McGonagall pinched her nose-bridge between two fingers. “Mr. Potter, Harry, surely you see that pinning all your life prospects on one single person --  _ a Slytherin  _ \-- is hardly a wise decision.”

Harry stood. “I fail to see the issue.” He made deliberate eye contact with the professor and laid his hands on her desk, leaning forwards slightly. “That single person -- a  _ Slytherin _ , no less -- placed his life in my hands, pinned his entire future on the possibility of me succeeding. I trust him with the same.” 

McGonagall rose from her chair and Harry straightened and took a step back. The Professor looked two steps away from feral. “They’re not the same, surely you can recognize that,” her tone was angry, “there are moral issues at play here, and the enormous likelihood of betrayal --” 

Harry’s eyes flashed warningly and she flinched. She then let out a loud sigh and abruptly changed her expression. In a far calmer tone, she continued, “but more importantly, you have such talent with defense against the dark arts. Don’t you want to spend your life protecting the wizarding world? Wasn’t that your dream?”

“It was never a  _ dream _ , but I’d say I went and fulfilled it anyhow. One dark lord killed, vanquished, and hand-delivered by Moi, your trustee fifteen-year-old savior.” Harry pulled out his wand and summoned confetti which unfurled in a geyser. Little strips of shiny colored paper fell softly in the room and blanketed the ground. He made half-hearted jazz hands. “Congratulations!” His face turned serious. “I’m  _ done _ with that part of my life. War had my childhood, I’m not giving it my adulthood.”

The professor rested across the desk from Harry, silent and brow furrowed. She gave a slight incline of her head and murmured, _“Never a dream_." She took a deep breath. "I suppose that’s your choice. I won’t try and take it from you. Because you deserve those, Harry. Choices, that is.”

Then she strode purposefully out from behind the oak bureau until she stood next to her younger student. She reached out her palm and bemused, Harry extended his own. They shook hands firmly.

“It was my -- privilege, to be your teacher, Mr. Potter.” Her eyes were a bit watery.

Harry gripped her hand even tighter. “And it was an honor to be your student, Professor McGonagall.”

There was confetti in both of their hair (black as raven wings,) and the light of a thousand candles burning in both their eyes.

He left her office whistling “Here Comes The Sun,” (heard on Sirius’s radio) and feeling lighter than he had going in. 

***

The end of the year of feast was unlike any that had ever been seen before. The house tables had all been pushed together and with the exception of a very small group of (unpopular) Slytherins, everyone intermingled. 

There was no house cup: Dumbledore had announced, “This year, we are all celebrating the single most important gift together. We are all celebrating the gift of life. It is precious indeed.”

The great hall was decked out in a strange hodgepodge of yellow snakes, red badgers, green eagles, and blue lions. The decorations flitted in and out, hissing and growling at one another. 

The house-elves all seemed to be forgetting to pop back to the kitchen and at one point sang their own unique and high-pitched drinking song:

_ Drinky drinky all the beer-ah _

_ Pinky pinky swear it here-ah _

_ Is it water or is it wine? _

_ Wait too long it’s always whinge _

_ They wail and flail these masters do _

_ So drinky drinky before they calls for you! _

(Needless to say, Hermione spent half an hour following the song campaigning for S.P.E.W. She was also largely ignored by everyone except for Dobby, who showed up decked in no less than ten of her hand-knitted hats.)

Draco was sitting next to Harry, the two of them pushed together so close they were sharing breaths. 

Hermione, after having run herself down from her impassioned lectures on the necessity of creature equality, had her head laid in Ron’s lap. 

“I just think they should also be given mind-healers. I know that Dumbledore making them available to all of us after this year was such a good thing. Because I don’t even know how I would have gotten through the fact I killed someone -- even if it was in self-defense -- without Healer Aspen. So when I think about all the poor house-elves raised in abusive environments, they just don’t have any sense of what it means to be in a healthy relationship with authority. They need to see someone to get a sense of what it would mean to be taken care of adequately. You know what I mean?”

Harry burrowed his face into Draco’s neck. Voice quiet he admitted, “Yeah, ‘Mione. I think that’s -- that’s something important. They deserve to be treated like they’re worth something.”

Hermione sat up and Ron frowned in Harry’s direction. He laid a hand on his best mate’s shoulder. “You did too.”

Draco kissed Harry’s forehead. “I’ll just have to remind him how much he’s worth.”

Harry laughed, voice muffled by Draco’s ungodly defined neck tendons. “And how much is that?”

Draco stroked a finger down Harry’s spine. “Priceless. I’m a Malfoy after all. I’d accept nothing less.”

Harry turned his face up so he could look into Draco’s silver eyes. “Then kiss me like you mean it, Slytherin prince.”

Draco smirked. “As you wish, golden boy.” The taller boy cradled the Gryffindor’s head in one palm and then tugged at the roots of the dark hair. Harry gasped as Draco descended, their lips pressing together, and the blonde’s other hand encircling the smaller boy’s lithe waist. 

Harry straddled Draco’s legs, surging up so he could get a better -- deeper -- angle. Draco’s hand slipped to hook one thumb in his boyfriend’s belt loop, fingers dipping inside the elastic waistband of his boxers. 

As their tongues met, Neville Longbottom coughed very loudly. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he intoned, “public indecency is still frowned upon, despite the end of terror. Please do that, em, somewhere else.”

Harry pulled back but Draco wouldn’t let him go far. Pushing their foreheads together, Draco said, “Oh sod off, Longbottom.” He nipped Harry’s lower lips. “My love, if you would.”

And without needing any further instruction, the boy-who-lived and man of the hour promptly apparated  _ on Draco’s lap  _ to his four-poster bed. Inside of Hogwarts.

In his wake, a charming little message remained in silver mist. “You’re right, Neville. We need to finish this in private.”

Colin Creevey caught the whole thing on camera. His brother had to help him pick up his jaw from the floor.

Ron spluttered. “BLIMEY! Did you guys see that?”

Hermione was laughing hysterically. “He apparated inside the school! Oh dear lord, they’re going to need to revise  _ Hogwarts a History. _ I’ll have to buy a new copy.”

Daphne Greengrass merely sighed and muttered, “it’s always fucking Potter.”

Theo and Blaise raised their glasses.

***

Harry’s spectacles rested on a side table. Draco was tracing nonsense patterns on his bare skin. 

“I told McGonagall I was gonna marry you today.”

Draco smiled, pleased. “Did you?”

Harry kissed his boyfriend’s chest, right above his heart. “I did, yeah.”

Draco placed his hand over the back of Harry’s neck. “Well, maybe I’ll just have to marry you first.”

Harry climbed on top of Draco, pinning the taller’s wrists on the bed. “Game on, blonde barbie.”

Draco effortlessly flipped their positions, caging Harry more securely with his legs. “Is that a challenge I hear, baby lion? You should know a Malfoy always wins."

Harry grinned with mischief in his eyes. “Well, if all goes according to plan, I’d say that bodes well for me.”

(It’s a good thing, Seamus reflected later, that Harry was so good at silencing charms. But even silence couldn’t hide just how much the golden boy's bed was shaking.)

***

It was a tradition for seventh years to go back to the trains on the boats over the lake as they came to the school as first years. 

Harry and the rest of the HP went outside to watch the Seventh years graduate. (They were mostly there for the Weasley twins.)

Snape was standing beside Harry. The man had decided to retire from teaching. He’d told the headmaster that due to the death of the dark lord, his services as a spy were quite done.  _ I’ve accepted a job in Paris as the potion’s master for Le Coeur Médical. I trust you’ll be able to find someone who actually enjoys teaching as a craft beyond the security of your magnanimous leash. _

Harry, it was determined, would be living with Snape. They’d had a talk with the newly exonerated Sirius. Harry had said he’d like to live with Snape, Snape had said he’d like to keep Harry around, and Sirius had guffawed and said, “ _ Snivellius, I hate your guts, but I’ll do anything for this kid and he seems happy. I never intended to be anything more than a godfather anyways. I hope you like pranks.” _

Snape was unimpressed with Sirius, and he was preparing all of his best tea for his new charge.

Harry held a letter from Dudley in his back pocket. He’d received it earlier in the day at breakfast and had not been able to let it go since. He replayed the words in his mind as he waited for the boats to begin their journey.

_ Dear Harry, _

_ I heard you saved the world. That’s such a weird thing to write to your skinny-ass cousin, but there it is. I can’t say I’m surprised. _

_ I had to go to training about signs of abuse because I’m a senior member of the boxing team and I have to look out for the freshies now, you know? And I see now, what happened with mum and dad, the way they treated you, it wasn’t right. If you ever want to charge them for their crimes or whatever, I think you can. Maybe you should. _

_ I have this friend. His sister’s a muggle-born, and he just about freaked out when I told him you were my cousin. He said you saved her life. The ~~dementoids~~ dementors were swarming or something two years ago and you scared them all off. Like you did for me, this summer. _

_ I don’t know if I get to say that I’m proud of you because everything you do is all you, man. But I guess I wanted to say, for whatever it’s worth, I’m proud to be your cousin. I’m proud I got to know you. And if you ever want to grab a coffee or something, just the two of us, I’d like that. _

_ -Dudley _

Harry thought the note could fuel about a thousand Patronuses all at once. He didn’t even like coffee but he would absolutely be grabbing a few.

The boats began to glide back to shore and away from the castle as the seventh years sat, two in a boat, singing the Hogwarts song in all its beautiful discordance.

Fireworks lit up the sky. Images appeared one after the other of all the graduates from their time in Hogwarts. Memories of them as first-years sat underneath a shimmering sorting hat, second-years muffled their ears against mandrakes.

Firework Fred and George flew about the whole montage on broomsticks, hitting one memory into the next like the sparkles were bludgers.

Snape stared up at the brilliant display with a wistful smile. He knocked shoulders with Harry.

“That’s excellent charmwork.” He motioned to the glittering twins. 

Harry leaned his head near Snape’s collarbone. “I helped.”

  
  
Snape tucked Harry into his side. “I thought you might have. Lily excelled in charmwork but those insufferable Weasley brats are not too skilled at such fine artistic details.”

  
  
Harry watched the boats dock on the other side of the shore, the firework display ending in a finale of spectacular color resembling the northern lights and punctuated with the faces of every member of the graduating class. “That’s why I helped.”

Snape brushed his hand through Harry’s unruly hair. “It is excellent, Potter, just like your mother.” Snape shook his head for a moment and laughed a little breathlessly. “No,” he said, voice full of unshakable genuine belief, “remarkable, Harry. Just like you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A Book for all Occasions": Well that's the end of that story  
> "A Spell for Every Circumstance": But really just the start of ours  
> "A Book for all Occasions": We're expecting parents, the two of us are  
> "A Spell for Every Circumstance": Snape's been so busy with Harry he forgot to keep the two of us apart, and you know what happens when two books love each other very, very, much  
> "A Book for all Occasions": Obviously they adopt a novella together  
> "A Spell for Every Circumstance": If Snape can adopt Harry Potter then surely we can adopt the novella "Charming at Every Moment"  
> "A Book for all Occasions": We've picked out a particularly nice bit of shelf for our new child  
> "A Spell for Every Circumstance": And of course, we're saving all our best tea.
> 
> (Idea for this A/N comes from a humorous and unforgettable comment by one Goddess_Danu on chapter 8.)
> 
> New work just released: [ Harry Potter and The Immortal’s Playground](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27453043/chapters/67114255)
> 
> Ever wonder about Harry with a hobby? Read [ Dripping Fingers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25440826/chapters/61701526)
> 
> Excting news: I'm writing a real book. That you can buy and stuff! (Woah) I was just green-lit by my publishing house so I'll be going live with the novel in August 2021. If you would all check out my very small and short author page, that would be super nice. (no pressure, most of us come onto AO3 for fanfic and not endorsements, but you miss every shot you don't take, and make every shot you don't miss.) Here it is, btw: [ Author Page](https://www.facebook.com/Maytal-Booth-100632525388306) Check it out to learn my name and catch a glimpse of my face (lol)


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